


Ring-Fingered Men

by helico_pter



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bodyguard Otabek Altin, Friendship, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Off-screen Character Death, Original Character(s), Russian Mafia, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:22:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 63,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23276257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helico_pter/pseuds/helico_pter
Summary: Life isn't all about the new kitchen assistant at Grandpa's diner but having an ally certainly helps in Yuri's turbulent world. Only a few weeks remain until Yuri's 18th birthday, and he hopes everything will be different afterwards. That, somehow, he'll no longer be a child to everyone.
Relationships: Mila Babicheva & Yuri Plisetsky, Nikolai Plisetsky & Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky, Victor Nikiforov & Yuri Plisetsky, Yuri Plisetsky & Everyone
Comments: 87
Kudos: 143





	1. Wednesday, 15th of January

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone needs to write a Mafia AU, right?
> 
> I thoroughly enjoy the bodyguard!Otabek trope, but finding finished fics featuring this trope isn't easy. So I wrote my own version.
> 
> ETA: [Melliebae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melliebae/) has written fanfic for my fanfic??? It's a one-shot continuation of this story, including smut, and you can read it [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27842266) (or by following the link below to related works). <3

Since his grandfather’s back had become worse a year ago, and ever since his grandmother had died, Yuri was often the first one in the restaurant, turning on the lights and starting on the daily chores. Except this morning it was neither him nor his grandfather who was in first.

Christmas holidays had been over almost a week ago, and Grandpa had insisted Yuri take down all the Christmas decorations early this year. It had been a strange, quiet Christmas with just the two of them, and neither of them had wanted to make it last any longer than it needed. The lack of Christmas lights must have been why the shop seemed darker than before when Yuri got in.

However, the kitchen was lit, the coffee pots were filled and ready to go, and the dishes left over from the previous night were being washed. Yuri wasn’t sure if the man had seen or heard him over the hum of the water running and the clinking of the dishes, but Yuri didn’t approach him, just watched from the shop floor.

By the time Mila arrived, Yuri was sitting at the counter that separated the kitchen and the dining room and was still watching. The mail he’d collected from the foyer was still clutched in his hand, and he still had his coat and backpack on. He had come in through the front because it had snowed and that meant the back door was unusable until someone cleared a path.

“Who the hell is that?” Mila hissed and sat next to him, placing her purse on the counter.

“I don’t know,” Yuri replied.

“Look at his _arms_ ,” Mila said.

“I know,” Yuri replied. He had looked.

“Look at his _face_ ,” Mila said.

“I _know!_ ” Yuri replied. He had looked _a lot_.

The man wore a tight black t-shirt, which bared him up to his biceps. His face was sullen and sharp. The back and the sides of his head were shaved short, with the top left a little longer. There was no way he hadn’t noticed the two of them, but he had no reaction.

And he kept washing the dishes like a machine.

“He was here before me,” Yuri said.

“Did Uncle Kolya hire him?” Mila asked.

“I don’t know!” Yuri replied. “If he did, he didn’t tell me anything.”

“Maybe it’s Uncle Yasha, then,” Mila mused.

Yuri shrugged. He was looking at the biceps.

“Look at his _ass_ ,” Mila added in a whisper.

“Shh,” Yuri exhaled.

“My name,” the man said, not looking up from the dishes, “is Otabek.”

Yuri and Mila shared a look. Yuri felt his face darken, but Mila grinned instead.

“Heard us then?” she asked and hopped off the stool to circle the counter. “You can call me Mila.” She raised her eyebrows at Yuri. “I better start the coffee.”

Yuri didn’t move or say anything. The man, _Otabek_ , hadn’t even looked up. He was still elbow deep in dish soap and dirty plates, washing mechanically and thoroughly. Mila joined him in the kitchen, flipping on the coffee makers and started making inventory of what was in the walk-in fridge and freezer, completely unrepentant over her ogling.

Yuri slid off the stool and walked into the kitchen. He stopped by the sink and the dishwasher, but out of the splash zone. On closer inspection Otabek turned out to possess thick, black lashes that curled even more perfectly than Mila’s. It made Yuri angry, which he preferred over being embarrassed.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Yuri asked. On closer inspection Otabek was also shorter than Yuri had expected.

Otabek said nothing.

“Hey!” Yuri said, smacking the countertop with his palm. He was in charge until his grandfather came in.

“Washing dishes,” Otabek said.

“Who let you in?” Yuri demanded. He knew of no thief who broke in to wash dishes and he was acquainted with some thieves, forgers, gamblers, and generally non-law-abiding citizens.

“Me,” Otabek said. Then, with an exasperated sigh, “Got a key.”

Mila had stopped to listen, a bag of potatoes in one hand and carrots in the other. “Otabek,” she said sweetly. “When you’re done there, can you help me peel these?”

Otabek nodded shortly and kept washing. Yuri scowled at Mila who shrugged.

“Since he’s already here, why not have him help?” she said simply. “I know you won’t.”

Yuri hated getting his hands wet or dirty. He shoved them in the pockets of his coat and stepped back from the splash zone when Otabek took the faucet in hand and rinsed off a pile of plates.

Although Yuri hated to call his grandfather before he got in, Yuri got his phone out and retreated back to the counter. “Grandpa,” he started when heard his grandfather pick up. “Who the fuck-”

“He replaced Valera,” Grandpa cut him off immediately.

“Uncle Valera was fine!” Yuri argued, turning away so neither Mila or Otabek saw him pout. Grandpa hadn’t even bothered to tell him about it, and it was so _unfair_. “Just slow.”

“Just slow and old, and it’s _my shop_ , Yurochka. I retired Valera and got us someone who can _work_. Put me on speaker.” Yuri slammed the phone on the counter and switched on the speaker. “Otabek. Ignore my ingrate grandson and keep up the good work I know you’re doing. You too, Mila.”

“Thanks, Uncle Kolya!” Mila said cheerfully and blew a raspberry at Yuri.

“Yes, boss,” Otabek said, not looking up.

Yuri could feel his cheeks go red as he snatched up his phone. “Grandpa-”

“Run the shop, not your mouth,” Grandpa said and Yuri mashed the end call button, angry, as he marched into the little office to hide, but also to work on the books before he headed to school. He’d been doing the books for the shop since he was fourteen, now almost four years ago, and he was very good at it. He liked playing with numbers, and there were a lot of numbers in handling two sets of books.

He liked it more on days when Grandpa hadn’t scolded him and when there wasn’t someone new in his kitchen. Maybe he _was_ an upgrade to old Valery Danilovich, both in efficiency and appearance, but that didn’t make it any less unfair to Yuri.

The old squashy chair in the office was perfect for Yuri to sit cross-legged in. He kicked off his boots and pulled his legs up, then opened the big, actual books as well as booted up the ancient tabletop computer. He managed about half an hour of work before there was a knock on the door and Party Pooper Popovich put his head in, snow melting off his forehead.

“Giving you the fifteen minute mark,” Georgi said. “They’re coming in.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yuri sighed. It was a stupid tradition. “Go tell Mila and the new guy.”

“There’s a new guy?” Georgi opened the door properly and looked immediately worried. More snow was melting off his shoes onto the floor.

“Yeah, Grandpa hired him.” Yuri scrolled down the Excel sheet. “He’s in the kitchen.”

“Does Uncle Yasha know?”

Yuri shrugged, making an _I-don’t-know_ sound. It was none of his business, as Grandpa liked to remind him every chance he got. Georgi rolled the giant ring on his finger that covered the tattoo underneath, a nervous habit of his.

“I better check him out.”

“Whatever. Close the door.”

The office could maintain a nice cool temperature if the door was shut and the computer wasn’t on, especially in the winter because the building was more holes than walls, and Yuri liked it fine that way. But now, the computer was on and the hot air and noise from the kitchen was flooding in.

_Idiot number two is in_ , he texted Grandpa. _I’m leaving when idiot number one shows up_ _._

_I expect you back after school_ _,_ Grandpa replied.

“Where the fuck else would I go?” Yuri muttered as he closed all the programs on the computer. Even powering down took forever on the shitty bootleg Windows XP.

Yuri would’ve liked to enjoy his teenage years with partying and vodka just like everyone else, but there was a whole constellation of arbitrary reasons and rules Grandpa had erected to keep Yuri boxed in since Yuri’s mother had died. And if Yuri stepped outside the lines, Grandpa always found out and yelled at him until they were both in tears. Grandpa had lost a wife and a daughter, and thus Yuri had lost a mother and a grandmother, and the loss seemed to be the glue that fused them together.

Yuri put his feet on the desk and did some social media surfing while waiting. He could escape the banality of his everyday through the internet, looking at fancy people and fancy places. Glamour like that was a far cry from his Grandpa’s stuffy restaurant shoved between a laundromat and a bar in a not so fashionable part of Moscow, where the only fascinating element was the criminal one that visited almost daily. And even that had lost its gleam with familiarity.

“Good morning, Yurchik!”

Speaking of. “Fuck off, Vityok.”

Viktor leaned against the doorframe, dusting new snow off his shoulders. His handsome face was set in a brilliant smile that rivalled the bigger stars in Yuri’s phone. Viktor’s choice of profession didn’t match his face. “Is Uncle Kolya in yet?”

“Does it look like it?” Yuri took his feet off the desk and shoved them back into his boots. He pocketed his phone and tugged the hood of his hoodie up in preparation for putting his winter coat back on.

“Aha, no matter.” Viktor beamed and stopped Yuri as he tried to get out of the office. “Be careful out there, kitten. It’s cold and slippery.” He pulled Yuri’s coat shut.

“Fuck off, Face.” Yuri shoved him aside and stomped into the kitchen. There were a few customers in the dining room, most of which he recognised. Georgi was in the corner booth, wiping the table. Mila was stirring a big pot of borscht, and Otabek was sitting down by one of the prep tables, peeling beets.

“I’m leaving, okay?” Yuri declared. “I’ll be back when I’ll be back.”

“Have fun at school, Yurasik,” Mila said, glancing up with a smile and a wink towards Otabek.

“Ooh, this must be the new kitchen assistant,” Viktor said, placing his arm across Yuri’s shoulders. Otabek glanced up too, surprisingly. “Enjoy school, Yuranechka!”

Yuri shoved him away again, fuming. Even Viktor had known. “Not my problem,” he growled and headed out, unrolling his scarf from his pocket. The sun had come up, as much as it did on a cloudy day, but more snow was falling. At least the cold pinpricks cooled Yuri’s hot cheeks as he stood still for a bit, turning his face against the wind.

“Do you have your phone?” Viktor yelled after him and spurred Yuri on and away from the shop with a raised middle-finger. He still patted the pockets of his hoodie through his coat, making sure both phones were there: his everyday smartphone and the burner phone, both right there.

_Unfair,_ he thought rebelliously, kicking a pile of refrozen and grey snow by the road. A thought that came up to him ten times a day. Sometimes ten times an hour. He chased the chunk of ice and snow across the snow-and-salt slush on the pavement, kicking it ahead like a football until he almost his balance, and not because there were two 10-year-olds ahead of him, doing the same on their way to school.

Being a child was past him. Uncle Yasha already wanted to recruit him, and he knew for a fact Viktor had started his career as a criminal around the same age he was now, but Grandpa had told him to forget it. And calling Grandpa a hypocrite over the issue didn’t usually go over so well. He let Yuri do the books, but not actually join the Brotherhood. As if knowing about the money laundering didn’t already implicate him enough.

Yuri was shivering by the time he made it to the metro, but if anyone asked, he was never cold. It was a matter of principle when wearing fashionably ripped skinny jeans in winter, and a matter of disagreement every time Grandpa saw him in them. At school he snoozed through history—he didn’t need government-sanctioned history, he’d learned enough from Grandpa to not trust the government—but sat up for maths. He liked numbers. They either worked or they didn’t.

At lunch he lapped up the barley porridge that was more watery than chunky and heavily salted. It was better than the mystery meats the school cafeteria served and cost less. And the taste could be washed away with the room temperature orange soda he’d bought as an accompaniment.

The snow flurries had calmed down by the time Yuri left school to head back to the restaurant. A few of his classmates had asked him to join them, but he knew it was mostly because Viktor had gifted him an expertly forged fake ID and not really for the pleasure of his company. It was still snowing, but in lazy, big, fluffy flakes and the overcast sky was wisteria pink from the city lights. It was a common sight during winter nights and meant the weather was warmer than on a clear night.

This time Yuri went to the back entrance of the shop and found it cleared of snow. But he didn’t enter and instead stayed outside, catching snowflakes on the sleeves of his hoodie and on his tongue. At least until he realised Otabek was standing there, in the shadow between the big metal door and the rubbish bins, having a smoke. He didn’t say anything, but Yuri could feel the dark eyes on him even if he could only see them when the tip of Otabek’s cigarette flamed between his lips.

“You know what,” Yuri said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “If you work for my Grandpa, you work for me. Change that light above the door.” The light had been out for ages. The glass cupola had been broken by an act of vandalism. That is, a rock thrown in anger by Yuri. Grandpa had made it his responsibility to replace so it hadn’t been replaced for months.

Otabek exhaled a cloud of smoke and steam that hid his face. “Okay,” he said calmly.

Yuri headed in, throwing the metal door open as hard as he could. The heat and humidity of the kitchen tingled on his cold face and hands. Mila’s hair always became frizzy during the day she spent in the kitchen, and her face became almost as red as her hair. At least Grandpa hadn’t fired Uncle Sima yet. No one else knew how to make half the stuff on the menu.

“Yurasik,” she said as soon as he spotted him and gestured for him to come closer. The good thing about Uncle Sima was that he didn’t care about what was going on around him. Like Grandpa and Uncle Yasha he’d served time in the north. “So, get this,” Mila said. “The new guy left like five minutes after you this morning and came back after an hour. He left again about forty-five minutes ago and still hasn’t come back!”

“What? He’s right outside,” Yuri muttered. “Surprised you didn’t see him when you took your five hundred smoke breaks.”

“He wasn’t there ten minutes ago!” Mila insisted, proving that she’d indeed taken all the breaks and more. “So he came back when you did too!”

“So what?” Yuri shook her off. “Is Grandpa in the office?” There’d been more than one mysterious person working at the shop over the years. Usually they didn’t do the dishes, but they all stayed around a month at the most, then left as suddenly as they’d appeared.

“You don’t think it’s a little too coincidental?” Mila asked, wiping her forehead with her wrist, trying not to touch her face with her rubber glove-covered hands.

The back door swung open as Yuri opened his mouth, and Otabek stepped in. His leather jacket had a fur-lined collar. Yuri snapped his mouth shut and turned on his heel to go into the office. Grandpa wasn’t there and Yuri dumped his coat on the chair before heading out into the dining room.

The place had its regulars, many of which Yuri knew and many of which greeted him as he came out. The corner booth had its regular visitors as well. Uncle Yasha flanked by Aunt Lilia and Grandpa, then Georgi and Viktor, and Viktor’s guest, Tall Man Giacometti from Switzerland. Yuri loitered over, pretending disinterest by staring above Uncle Yasha’s head at the golden icons and the old burgundy drapes while he said hello. Both Grandpa and Uncle Yasha wore knit fingerless gloves to cover their knuckle tattoos, but the younger generation wore flashy rings instead.

“Grandpa, do you need me for anything?”

“No,” Grandpa said. “Go do your homework.”

“Can I sit?”

“Of course!” the Tall Man said immediately, scooting over and sitting on the hem of Grandpa’s jacket. He patted the off-white vinyl seat. Georgi’s ring almost flew off his finger with how fast he started turning it while everyone else went quiet.

“Vitya,” Uncle Yasha said, not looking up from the papers he and Grandpa had spread on the table between them. A call to discipline their foreign correspondent who was grinning up at Yuri.

“He wants to, I don’t see why we shouldn’t let him,” Viktor argued, the only one who dared to do so in the face of his elders. “Right, Yurionok?”

“When I turn 18, I’m gonna sit at _someone’s_ table,” Yuri said rebelliously because it was so _unfair_.

“You’re welcome at mine,” the Tall Man promised, and Grandpa rapped his knuckles against the tabletop to bring a stop to the conversation. The look he gave the Tall Man was colder than Siberia.

“Homework,” he repeated. Code for _this business isn’t for you._ Georgi was rolling the ring on his finger again, glancing between his elders.

Aunt Lilia pulled the ashtray closer and lit up a cigarette. She’d been a ballet dancer in her youth, before meeting Uncle Yasha. She wasn’t exactly a member of the Brotherhood, but no one dared to assume otherwise.

“Vodka,” she said. Yuri looked back at his grandfather who nodded shortly.

“Got it, Auntie,” he sighed. Fetching them drinks was marginally better than being told to do his homework, but after his bluster both options were still humiliating.

He shuffled into the kitchen, not bothering with his coat. “Mila. I gotta run next door,” he said. Mila’s sparkly hoop earrings bounced as she turned her head.

“Let me come with you,” she said, already taking off her apron. “I’m due for a break anyway.” She was shameless. “I’ll be right back, Uncle Sima, don’t you worry,” she added, patting the old man on the back as she went by. He only grunted, the steam from the many pots on the stove glistening on his bald, tattooed head.

“Why would anyone worry?” Yuri said, venting his humiliation that fortunately wouldn’t have been heard in the kitchen over the hum of cooking. “You weren’t doing anything.”

“I was reading Vogue while waiting for the potatoes to finish, so what?” she snorted, twirling her hair in her fingers to make it more like curls and less humidity-influenced frizz. “Be back soon!”

Uncle Sima lifted a quick hand and Otabek gave them a glance, then went back to scraping food off old plates as they headed out through the back door. Mila lit up a cigarette as soon as the door had closed behind them, and blew the smoke away from Yuri.

“What’s with the attitude?” she asked as they came out into the alley. She hadn’t worn her coat either, but the hot kitchen made it a relief to get out into the sub-zero early evening now and then.

“What attitude?” Yuri muttered and snatched her cigarette away, throwing it into the snow.

“Yura!” Mila chided him, shoving at his shoulder. “That was my last one.”

“Forever?” Yuri scowled at her and yanked open the door of the bar on the corner of the street, the one that shared a wall with Grandpa’s shop. It was run by an Uncle too. Everything in a radius of a few blocks from Grandpa’s place was run by someone they knew. Both a blessing and a curse.

She forced herself in through the door at the same time as him, causing them to be stuck for a split second before popping into the smoky dimness of the bar. All the lights were warm yellow, either from age or from nicotine stuck to the glass, which discoloured the whole place in a sepia glaze. It smelled like pipe tobacco, which was slightly more tolerable, and old leather and oil. The men—and women—who frequented the place all looked like Soviet era car mechanics to Yuri, but it was a look he was used to. The neighbourhood wasn’t a fashionable one and the inhabitants were from a bygone age. Many of them ex-convicts.

The whole block of businesses lived in a complex web of bartering. Grandpa supplied many with food, and the bar, in turn, supplied Grandpa with the drinks he served to the uncles.

“Vodka for the uncles,” Yuri said to the bartender and slumped over the counter, one arm under his chin and the other arm over his head. There were no questions. They knew who the vodka was for.

“And a carton of Primas,” Mila put in, already sliding money across the pitted surface of the ancient bar counter.

“A fucking carton,” Yuri repeated.

“People bum off me all the time,” Mila said matter-of-factly. “Got to have something to share.”

The bartender who certainly knew Yuri wasn’t of age to be buying spirits placed the vodka and the carton on the counter and took the money with nary a nod of thanks.

“Yeah, share the cancer and the stink.” Yuri shoved the bottle into the pocket of his hoodie.

“I’ll share all of that and more with the new dishwasher.” Mila pushed off the counter and followed Yuri back out. “I don’t get your hurry, Yurasik.”

“I’m not hurrying,” he said and slowed down even more.

Mila bumped his lumpy hoodie with its hidden treasures with her elbow, her hands tightly in the pockets of her own mint green cardigan. “I meant your hurry to join the uncles,” she clarified. “You’re not even 18 yet. What’s your hurry? It’s not like crime is going to end.”

Yuri picked up his pace again, and she kept up easily. “Why’re _you_ so resistant to ambition, granny? You’re twenty. Take a look at what you’re doing.”

“Judgemental much, _kitten?_ ” She employed the hated pet name and linked her arm through his. “I like working for Uncle Kolya. I get all sorts of fun opportunities through that kitchen.”

“It’s just so unfair,” Yuri muttered, kicking a lump of snow onto the street and watched it get decimated by a car. “I want to do more. I want to _be_ more. Don’t you ever feel like your life’s too small?”

“Oh, well,” she said as they stopped in front of the restaurant. The slow, big snowflakes looked more like ash in the glow of city lights. “I guess. Everyone probably has. Is this about your mother?”

“No!” Yuri huffed. “Not everything’s about that!” He’d felt the smallness of his life even before his mother had died, but never so acutely as now, on the cusp of legal adulthood and yet even more limited and watched than he’d been before, unable to vent out his impossibly colossal feelings about the loss of his mother, or anything else in his life.

“Gotcha.” She fished the carton out from Yuri’s pocket and peeled away the plastic wrap of the carton to take out a packet. It crinkled as she bent the lid open and fished out a cigarette to light up.

“It’s delivery day tomorrow,” Yuri said, stepping away from her. He lived at the restaurant even when he wasn’t there. He’d worked there in some capacity ever since he could peel root vegetables, and more so after his grandmother had died three years ago. But he hadn’t begun to hide there until after his mother was murdered.

“Your favourite. I’m not coming since you have new help,” Mila said, blowing smoke up against the snowflakes. “Already squared it with Uncle Kolya.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“He seemed actually okay, though.” Mila inhaled more cancer. “Otabek, I mean. Aside from the shady errands and mild attitude issues. Made him clean the drain in the walk-in and he just did it! Imagine that. Someone who actually does his chores.”

“I’m excused,” Yuri said. “So fucking excuse me.” He headed in, leaving her to finish her disgusting habit. He went straight to the booth and put the bottle on the table, then left without having another word with any of them. He got his coat and backpack and kept going through the kitchen to the back door.

When outside again, he inhaled the cold air like it was a drink. It pinched the inside of his nose almost like carbonation did.


	2. Thursday, 16th of January

The suppliers all made their deliveries to the shop on Thursday morning. It was unfair that Mila had just taken the day off, but Yuri couldn’t blame her either. It was no one’s favourite day. The front of the shop was still dark, but the lights were on in the kitchen when Yuri came in through the front door. Yuri took one of the seats at the counter, without bothering to remove his coat, and leaned his head on his arms, watching Otabek wash dishes again.

“You want to say something about my arms or my ass again?” Otabek began the conversation, jolting Yuri out of his stare.

“No,” Yuri muttered, embarrassed, and buried his face so as not to even look. He didn’t even correct Otabek by pointing out it’d been Mila who’d been talking about those things. Without the hiss of steam and clanking of metal, or the steady rhythm of chopping vegetables or people talking in the dining room, the only sounds were the clinks of the plates in the sink, the sloshing of water, and the hum of the walk-in fridge. A car passing by painted moving shadows and lights on the walls, and Yuri’s eyes crept up to watch the dishwasher again.

A knock on the front door startled him out of his daze. The knock was incautious and sloppy enough to rattle the glass and break the moment. Yuri slid off the stool and went to peer outside, finding the Tall Man grinning at him. Yuri didn’t open the door immediately, but stood in the little foyer.

“What do you want?” he grunted through the door.

“I’m lost,” the Tall Man said, grinning. “I got drunk, and Viktor left. I can’t find my hotel!”

“This isn’t it,” Yuri said.

“Open up.” The Tall Man knocked on the window again, right in front of Yuri’s face. “I know you have coffee in there and it’s cold as balls out here!”

“Well, it’s January, idiot,” Yuri muttered, but unlocked the door. They always treated Uncle Yasha’s friends, and Yuri wasn’t in the mood to get scolded by his elders for not being polite to the foreigner. He got to sit at their table while Yuri didn’t.

“Maybe you could show me around Moscow later,” the Tall Man said, kicking snow off his shoes in the foyer.

“No,” Yuri meant to say in English, but it came out as a heavy and irritated _nyet_ as he backed away and collided with a solid object he hadn’t expected.

“Watch out,” the Tall Man called out as Yuri whirled around to come face to face with Otabek, standing there like a statue in his apron and rubber gloves. “A bit of a _la bella e la bestia_ situation here, isn’t it?”

Otabek said nothing and walked back into the kitchen.

“Sit in the booth,” Yuri said and pointed, heart pounding. “And stay there.”

“Aren’t you going to keep me company? You wanted to sit at the table so much last night.” The Tall Man took off his gloves and smiled at him.

“Not with you, _Uncle_ ,” Yuri stomped into the kitchen after Otabek. He’d filled the coffee machines again so Yuri slammed one of them on and glared at the back of Otabek’s neck while the machine burbled.

“I don’t want to sit alone in the dark.” The Tall Man had come to the counter and was blinking owlishly at the bright, fluorescent lights of the kitchen. “And your company isn’t very talkative. You can talk to me, but only if you call me Chris.”

Yuri was about to say something that would definitely get him scolded when the tell-tale beeping of a truck backing up sounded from the back alley. “Okay, then,” he said, giving Christophe a grimace. “You don’t wanna sit alone? Come carry boxes.”

“Happy to help,” Christophe said, surprisingly genuine.

Yuri swung the big metal door open and braced it in place with a wood block. The alley had a different cast to it, as though there were more shadows than usual. It clicked when Yuri stepped out. The light had been replaced over the door. He glanced at Otabek, who was looking straight at him, and after the shiver of surprise had passed, Yuri nodded his thanks.

“Yurik!” The driver stepped out of the truck with a rolled-up sheaf of papers in hand. “You know the deal.”

“Prokop,” Yuri greeted him and took the papers to sign, while the man opened the back of his truck, sending out a blast of even more chilly air and the faint stink of raw meat. Tall Man Christophe didn’t make a move to pick up anything, but Otabek didn’t hesitate and jumped into the truck to grab two frozen legs of raw ham.

The unloading was done with minimal talking, while the sky slowly turned form dark grey to lighter grey. It wasn’t snowing, but the air was frigid and the clouds were moving at a swift pace, meaning a high-pressure front and even colder air was coming.

Yuri thanked Prokop with a handshake before he drove his truck away. He too wore the lozenge-shaped tattoo on one of his fingers, faded and blue with age. Yuri was used to seeing those old tattoos with uneven edges and some of the ink bleeding into the surrounding skin. They’d been done in prison. Somewhere out there was a world that didn’t include these tattoos on surly, scarred old men, but that world had all but stopped existing since Mama was gone.

Christophe was fussing at one of the sinks, trying to get a stain off his shirt. “Glad to be of help, _gattino_ , but warn a man next time you want him to handle your meat. Especially if it’s raw.”

They both jumped at the thud of the walk-in fridge door being slammed shut, and the roll of the dishes on the shelves leaning against that wall. Otabek looked at both of them and came to wash his hands at the same sink. Christophe raised his hands and backed away, giving Yuri a hapless look.

“Well, next it’s gonna be raw vegetables. Is that better?” Yuri muttered just as there was a knock on the back door. Yuri went to open it. “Olik,” he greeted the greengrocer.

Christophe’s phone rang. “Sorry, I’m going to take this,” he said and walked into the dark dining room he’d so hated earlier. “Viktor?”

Yuri signed the papers and shook hands and Otabek carried more boxes in without complaint. Soon after Uncle Sima came in to start cooking the staples since Mila wasn’t on shift, and he was followed by Viktor, looking tired but still smiling.

“I heard you made Chris do menial labour. That’s fantastic,” Viktor said, winding his long arm around Yuri’s shoulders at the counter while Yuri was filling the salt shakers.

Yuri shook him off, only to have a different arm land across his shoulders from the other side. This belonging to Christophe.

“I offered, didn’t I?” Christophe said, bringing his mouth too close to Yuri’s ear. Yuri recoiled slightly and lifted his head to see Otabek watching from behind the prep table, knife in hand. An indolent toss of his wrist made the knife flip around in the air, but no one else seemed to notice it.

Yuri slammed the salt shaker and the packet of salt onto the counter, turning his glare at Christophe, then Viktor. “Look at the time,” he grunted. “I’m off to school.”

“Good, education is important,” Viktor beamed without a hint of irony. Christophe laughed, and Otabek slammed the knife into the apple he was quartering, rattling the whole table.

*

The noises of the kitchen were comforting to Yuri, who often sat around the restaurant doing his homework after school if he didn’t need to help with anything. On those slower nights he also did most of his and Grandpa’s laundry, running back and forth between the laundromat next door and his grandfather’s shop.

Granny Lyusenka had been running the laundromat/dry cleaner’s next door for as long as Yuri could remember, which only covered the last decade or so. He knew she was older than Grandpa, and she looked ancient as well, but if anyone dared to offer her trouble, they’d soon be visited by one of his four sons, six grandsons, or countless great-grandsons, who were around Yuri’s age. He went to school with some of them. The Brotherhood never officially took in women, but there were some Aunties and Grannies anyway, without whom the business would be impossible.

In exchange for getting their laundry done for free and a whole lot of gossip, Grandpa fed Granny Lyusenka three meals a day and any of the fresh baking they did, such as Grandpa’s famous piroshki every Saturday.

Since the early evening rush was over, Grandpa had gone to sit with Granny next door and left Yuri in charge of the restaurant. He only needed to take the orders and carry them to the customers while Otabek and Uncle Sima kept the back of the house in order. Yuri hated to admit it so soon, but he could already tell just how slow and old Uncle Valera had been in comparison to Otabek.

It was unfair how things and people he was accustomed to were crumbling away. Uncle Yasha’s table had seen many people come and go. Viktor and Georgi were young blood, although they too had been around for a long time.

Yuri rolled his pencil around in his fingers, leaning his head on his hand, with a side-eye towards the kitchen in case he caught Otabek flipping his knife again, but his thoughts were with the sorest of changes in his life. There was no replacement for his mother. No ring-fingered man, not even Grandpa, had been able to help, they’d only carried her coffin to the ground.

Since then, to Yuri, those rings had meant the power to go to war on behalf of his mother. And while Grandpa was cautious and Uncle Yasha was wily, they were old men and old men moved slowly. Consideration and hesitation weren’t the same thing, but he couldn’t convince them of it. Almost nine months had gone by since Yuri had stood by the gaping maw of his mother’s grave, hands bandaged and stitched from having tried to fight off the attacker.

Yuri dropped his pencil when a steaming plate of solyanka was placed on the counter by his elbow. “Order up,” said Uncle Sima, which was one of the few things he ever said, along with “yes” and “no”. When he spoke more than that, something was wrong.

“Thanks,” Yuri said and picked up the hot plate carefully, transporting it to the only customer they had sitting at a table with a newspaper. “Soup,” he only said to the older man and placed the bowl down in front of him. Their clientele was more or less of the older generation and they were almost all known regulars; it wasn’t a fancy coffee shop or a modern fusion restaurant where young people tended to congregate.

Yuri turned back and met Otabek’s eyes across the counter. Otabek tilted his head as if in greeting and very purposefully flipped the wide-bladed knife in his hand. Yuri ducked his head so his hair would cover his reddening face as he came back around to continue his homework. He pulled his hood up when he sat down so it’d be easier to concentrate.

*

Closing up was easy because Otabek had easily kept up with the dishes during the day, and wiped surfaces immediately after completing prep tasks. By closing time there was hardly anything to do, and Yuri just needed to lock the doors after bidding goodbye to Uncle Sima, who, as normal, said nothing in return.

“Uh, see you,” Yuri told Otabek, who lit up a cigarette as soon as he stepped out of the shop. The sky was overcast and pink again, but there was a bit of wind that moved around Yuri’s hair until he got his hat on.

Otabek also said nothing, just nodded and leaned against the brick wall, blowing leisurely smoke out of his mouth as Yuri walked away. Maybe he had nothing else to do, but Yuri was eager to get home to his cat and a hot shower to wash off the diner from his hair. It always ended up smelling like something fried at the end of the day.

The area was safe enough for Yuri to wear his earbuds on the walk home. There were never many cars and most of the foot traffic was by people he knew or people who knew the same people he knew. The insular nature of the area was what made it safe.

Yuri was at the door to his apartment building when he noticed an unfamiliar gait of the person approaching the same spot. He nearly dropped his keys, but recollected himself when he recognised the face thanks to the combination of dim streetlights and a lit cigarette.

“Are you following me?” he asked, heart speeding up. It had happened before

“Got a place here,” Otabek said, making a gesture at the barred windows at the bottom of the wall. The basement apartment.

“No, you don’t,” Yuri argued. Grandpa owned the building. There were other tenants, but all of them were Grandpa’s old friends.

“Job perks,” Otabek said.

“For fuck’s sake,” Yuri muttered and got the door open. Otabek ground out his cigarette against the wall and came in with him, but headed for the stairs down while Yuri ran upstairs.

“Grandpa!” he yelled as soon as he got in, dropping his coat and backpack, and kicking off his boots with their jingly zippers. “You could’ve told me!”

“Pick up your clothes,” came Grandpa’s reply from the sitting room, pitched over the sound of the telly. “Tell you what?”

“You gave him the basement place!” Yuri stomped in, but stopped to greet Potya who had come out to see him.

“The boy is new in town, he needed a place,” Grandpa said. “It’s none of your business, Yurochka.”

“It should be,” Yuri muttered, petting and scratching his cat. “Shouldn’t it, Pomushka? Yeah. Did Grandpa feed you?”

“I fed her,” Grandpa said. “How was closing up?”

“Fine. Easy. The usual,” Yuri grumbled, loitering into the sitting room. Grandpa was on the sofa with his feet up, propped into a semi-reclining position with pillows. The coffee table housed empty tea cups and plates.

Grandpa silenced the television as Yuri threw himself into one of the armchairs. “And? How’s he working out? The Altin boy.”

Yuri shrugged. “Dunno,” he muttered, ducking his head so his chin was against his chest, and picked at his shirt. “He’s fine.”

“Better than Old Valera, right?” Grandpa was smug.

“Whatever.” Yuri wasn’t about to admit it. Potya jumped onto the arm of his chair rubbed against his arm. “You know, some day all of this is gonna be my business,” he said. “So shouldn’t I get to know about it soon? Vitya-”

“Vitya isn’t my grandson,” Grandpa cut him off. “I heard the Swiss was at the shop this morning.”

“I guess he was lost or something,” Yuri said. “I had to let him in, right?”

“Probably best that you did,” Grandpa agreed. “But I don’t like how he talks back. He doesn’t know how things are done around here.”

 _Neither do I and I fucking live here_ , Yuri thought. “So kick him out.”

“I also don’t like how he talks to you,” Grandpa added, looking at Yuri.

“Is that my fault?” Yuri bristled. He didn’t like it either. Maybe things were easier in Central Europe, but Russia wasn’t big on physical intimacy between men and Tall Man Christophe had already invaded his personal space too many times. He didn’t want to be implicated, whether it was true or not.

“No,” Grandpa said. “I’ll talk to Yasha about it. And maybe Vitya too. All you have to worry about is finishing school and staying safe. Take your feet off the table and go pick up your clothes. There’s no reason to lose our manners just because we’ve lost our womenfolk.”

Yuri took his feet off the coffee table and got up after kissing Potya on her forehead. She jumped down to follow him as he picked up his things and went into his room. There was another apartment on the top floor of the building that had been his and Mama’s, but he hadn’t wanted to stay there alone after she was gone so he’d moved into Grandpa and Grandmama’s place. It only came with the added annoyance of Grandpa nagging him constantly to pick up after himself.


	3. Friday, 17th of January

Yuri didn’t bother turning on the lights in the stairwell as he made his way down. He’d been running up and down these stairs for most of his life and he was surefooted enough to not need to see much more than shadows. He stopped on the last stair when he spotted a figure leaning on the wall by the outside door in the downstairs hallway, also in the dark, but his approach had definitely been audible.

“Wanna walk together?” Otabek asked, and Yuri jumped down the last step.

“Surprised you aren’t at the shop already,” Yuri huffed and strode past him.

“Was told going in with you would be sufficiently early.”

“Who told you that?” Yuri muttered, pushing the door open against the snow.

“The boss,” Otabek said.

Yuri had to admit to himself that his question had been stupid. If Otabek was working for his grandfather, then his grandfather would be the one to dictate his working hours and conditions. “Right,” he said, pulling up his hood against the biting air. Otabek had his already on, a hoodie worn under the fur-collared leather jacket.

Yuri was a fast walker. A combination of long legs, natural impatience, and stamina. He didn’t even falter on clear ice and rather skated over it than slow down. Otabek kept up, whether out of sheer stubbornness or whatever else. He stayed just a step behind, on Yuri’s left side, as a kind of an unnervingly steady presence.

“Thanks for fixing the light,” Yuri said only after they were at the backdoor of the restaurant and the aforementioned light gave them a clear but bleak picture of the bins and new snow that had come down during the night.

“Okay,” Otabek said as Yuri wrestled the heavy door open, fighting the accumulation of snow and frost.

_Okay,_ Yuri repeated inwardly as he got into the dark kitchen. He grabbed the shovel near the door and shoved it at Otabek. “Clear the snow.”

Otabek took the shovel without a word and went back outside, and Yuri watched him light a cigarette from the crack of the door swinging shut before getting to work. Without complaint, it should be noted, which was more than the task had received from Yuri, Mila or anyone else all these years. Georgi in particular had hated it when he’d worked there a long time ago before getting in good with Yakov.

Yuri flipped on the lights in the kitchen as he made his way to the office to dump his coat. He turned on the computer and left it to boot up while he headed back, but as he stepped out of the office, he stepped right into the blinding beam of the fog lights of a car directed right at the restaurant’s windows from the street. Yuri’s stomach seized uncomfortably and his heart lurched over a beat. He backpedalled into the office and got out his phone, dialling his grandfather in advance. He’d seen fear campaigns and other intimidation attempts before: broken windows, verbal threats, break-ins, and being followed. And, at worst, “accidents” or straight-up murders.

There was no way to leave the office and not be seen, so Yuri was stood in the shadow of the door for what felt like a small eternity, clutching his phone so hard the rhinestones on the back bit into his fingers. He heard the back door open and close, and Otabek stomping his feet.

“Otabek,” he called out, maybe to warn the new hire to stay behind the corner, or maybe to ask for reinforcements. Yuri wasn’t sure what he wanted, other than for the car to leave so he could go back to his morning routine.

“You okay?” Otabek’s voice carried across the kitchen, but he didn’t come into the light.

“Yeah, this happens,” Yuri lied. Not about the part of it happening, because it did, but about it being okay. His hand stung with how hard he was clutching the phone.

“Often?” Otabek asked. He sounded calm.

“Sometimes,” Yuri said. “This isn’t the worst of it,” he added and regretted it immediately. But no one working at the restaurant didn’t _not_ know what the deal was. Valery and Semyon had been in prison with Grandpa. Mila was one of Aunt Lilia’s students. And Yuri trusted his grandfather implicitly so right now he chose to trust Otabek.

“Gonna go out there,” Otabek said.

“No!” Yuri hissed, because it was the stupidest idea he’d ever heard. “Do you want to get killed?” He only heard the back door closing again and nothing from Otabek. “Shit. Shit!” Yuri unclenched his fingers from around the phone and called his grandfather. He didn’t like to do it that early in the morning, and twice in the same week, but neither the idiots with the fog lights or Otabek were leaving him any choice.

“What’s wrong?” Grandpa said instead of greeting Yuri. His voice was gruff and the words slurred from sleep.

“Someone’s parked outside the shop, shining their lights in,” Yuri said in a hurry. “And Otabek just went outside to have a look.” Yuri had always been told not to engage anyone looking to harass him. He hadn’t always obeyed, but he’d become a lot more careful after someone had brought a knife to his mother’s throat and he’d ended up with lacerated hands and a dead mother.

Grandpa grunted. He took these things seriously. Everyone did. They were literally a question of life and death sometimes. “Let him handle it, you stay put. I’ll be right there,” he said and hung up.

The angry crack of a car horn from outside startled Yuri, but the fog lights disappeared almost immediately after as the increasing traffic forced the car to move from its post. Yuri still didn’t move, but Otabek walked up, taking off his jacket to store it on the office’s coat rack. Yuri only stepped aside to let him go in and out of the room. Otabek smelled like cigarette smoke.

“Grandpa’s coming in,” he said.

“Okay,” said Otabek.

_Okay,_ Yuri thought. “What’d you do out there?”

Otabek’s eyes were very dark under the overhead lights. “Nothing,” he said. “Better get to work.”

Yuri considered his options. He could hide in the office if he wanted, but instead he followed Otabek and started working on the coffee machines. It was his favourite task besides making dough on Saturdays because he enjoyed grinding the coffee beans and the scent it created. And it was a dry, clean, helpful thing to do.

Otabek had no such reservations and pulled on an apron and rubber gloves in order to butcher a row of chickens. He seemed satisfied, even, and only flicked his gaze up now and then to meet Yuri’s because Yuri found it difficult to not look.

Nikolai arrived about half an hour later, looking tired and worried, and Yuri regretted calling him. Nikolai invited Otabek into the office and spoke with him for a few minutes while Yuri dawdled outside the door, pretending to check the ancient cash register on the counter. He couldn’t hear anything specific, just the murmur of their voices.

“Otabek will walk you to school,” Nikolai announced when they came out.

“What?” Yuri said, immediately frustrated. He wasn’t a child! It was _unfair._ Just because he’d been slightly spooked wasn’t a reason to have someone babysit him!

“No discussion,” Nikolai said and tapped his wristwatch. “Go now.”

“Grandpa.” Yuri pouted.

“He’ll also come walk you back if you start whinging,” Nikolai added.

Yuri groaned, but got his coat and backpack. It was almost as humiliating as being told he couldn’t sit at the adults’ table, but at least Otabek was kind of neutral so far. He didn’t make faces or tease like Viktor, and he wasn’t a worrywart like Georgi. And not patronising like almost everyone else in Yuri’s life.

“I don’t really need a babysitter,” Yuri grumbled when they were outside again, with the sky slowly becoming blue instead of black. It was still almost an hour to sun-up.

“Good,” Otabek said, blowing a perfect smoke ring in the still air. “You want one?” He offered the pack.

“No?” Yuri made a face. How was it not obvious he hated the habit? He pulled up his hood and bundled his scarf around his face to keep out the cold air that bit at the inside of his nose when he breathed in. “You should go back,” he said at the metro station. “I don’t want Grandpa to be alone.”

“Funny,” Otabek said, but didn’t move.

“What’s funny?” Yuri asked when it became obvious when Otabek wasn’t going to elaborate.

“He doesn’t want you to be alone either.”

“I’m just going to school,” Yuri muttered as the metro arrived, sending his hair and the ends of his scarf flying. It also flattened the fur collar on Otabek’s jacket and the hair on top of Otabek’s head, which made Yuri realise he was looking at Otabek instead of the train or where his feet where going.

“And I’m just taking you there,” Otabek asserted once they were inside the train car. His eyes tracked each of the other passengers, which was quite a few at that time of the morning, and Yuri could see that because he was still looking.

“It’s only, like, a few hundred metres at the other end,” Yuri added.

Otabek flicked his gaze to Yuri, once down, once up, and shrugged, but said nothing. Yuri resigned himself to more unfairness, putting away the fear he’d felt earlier. He was stupid for being afraid of car lights. He was stupid for making his Grandpa worry; he knew how to take care of himself. And now he was being walked to school like he was still six and not turning eighteen in less than six weeks.

At the front door of the school, Otabek gave him a curt nod and turned on his heel to retrace the route back to the shop. Yuri spent his lessons having mixed feelings of gratitude and frustration that his grandfather took his safety so seriously but also treated him like a child. Hadn’t he proved himself in running the diner?

He wasn’t consciously looking for Otabek when he came out of the building after his last class, but he also couldn’t have missed him. Otabek stood in the middle of the street, looking up at the cloud-white sky with his eyes squinted and a cigarette hanging between his lips, almost half of it ash. Yuri considered trying to dodge him, but knew it’d be pointless.

“I’m starving,” he said, walking up to him.

“What do you wanna do?” Otabek asked, dumping his cigarette.

Yuri hadn’t thought he’d get this far so he floundered for an answer. “Grandpa didn’t tell you to take me back to the shop or home?” No one had asked him what he wanted to do in a long time, just told him what he should do.

“No.” Otabek shrugged.

“Um, pizza,” Yuri said. The first thing that popped to mind.

“Okay,” Otabek said.

_Okay,_ Yuri thought. Just like that.

He waved half-heartedly at some of his classmates in passing and shuffled down the street, which was blocked from both sides with Soviet brutalist architecture: seamless concrete and small windows. The street was narrow and filled with dirty snow in unsightly piles and salt-encrusted slush. The sky was grey, as were the buildings. Yuri thought that maybe he’d imagined colour all his life, as there seemed to be none now. Except when he looked at Otabek’s face that was red across the cheeks and nose from the cold, and yet he seemed unaffected by it.

“Invest in some good chapstick,” Yuri said. “If you’re staying long.”

Otabek flicked his gaze up and down Yuri’s face, then nodded. “Thanks,” he said.

“If it gets colder, the air gets really dry,” Yuri added and dug in the pockets of his coat for the tube of chapstick he had. “This brand is good.” He put some on, not offering it to Otabek because it was almost used up anyway. Otabek watched.

“Got it,” Otabek said as Yuri rolled his lips together to spread the thick balm. “Does it get much colder?”

Yuri turned down the ends of his mittens to fit them under the sleeves of his coat and pulled up the zipper to his chin. He was already cold, especially after sitting still in class for so long. “It can,” he said. His hair crackled with static electricity under his hood.

“Oh,” Otabek said, with a degree of disappointment.

They’d walked to the metro station where Yuri chose the platform towards the centre of Moscow rather than towards home. He didn’t often eat out, but now he was committed to it.

“Anything else happen at the shop today?” Yuri asked while they waited, side by side, but far apart. He still had to lean in because noises echoed in the underground terminal and he didn’t want to speak very loudly.

“Nothing.” Otabek shrugged.

“Nothing?”

Otabek glanced at him. “Guess there was some meeting or something,” he added. “People came by to see the boss.”

“Who?” Yuri prompted, feeling uneasy. He should go back, not out to pizza. His hands ached in the cold despite his mittens and he shoved them into his armpits, sinking his face into his scarf.

“Dunno,” Otabek said. “Some old men. Some younger men. They sat in the booth.”

“Oh, okay. That was probably Uncle Yasha and whoever,” Yuri said. “They’re in business together,” he added although he doubted Otabek needed or cared for the clarification. Yuri understanding of the situation was full of holes, anyway. He wasn’t sure if they were on equal standing in the Brotherhood or if one was higher rank than the other, or if it mattered at all. They were small-time. “Did you hear what they were talking about?”

“Not my place to hear their conversations.”

A decent dishwasher’s attitude. Yuri tucked himself deeper into his coat. The coals in his belly did nothing to warm him up, causing only flares of anxiety. They must’ve discussed the car and the scare tactics. They must’ve talked about what to do if it went farther than that. He burned with the need to know and be involved because it was his life, or what was left of it now. They talked over him and around him like he wasn’t even a person, much less an adult who deserved to know.

Somehow, without his say-so, the world had become so small. As though he was constantly wearing clothes not his size and looking at everything through snowblind glasses.

*

The pizza place he’d always liked wasn’t there anymore. The windows were not exactly boarded shut, but covered with black bin bags and the door was broken. Other businesses on the block had disappeared too, leaving behind an almost empty street where the buildings seemed to be leaning over to give as little sky as possible. Many of the apartments above had similarly black windows.

Yuri tried to peer into some of the abandoned shops by holding his hands around his eyes to block the waning brightness of the afternoon, but there was nothing to see inside. He couldn’t remember when he’d last been there. Over a year ago? With Mama? With friends he couldn’t recall?

“Time to go,” Otabek said. He was looking down the street at a few men squatting on the stoop of a bar which seemed to be the only functional business left. Bars survived like roaches.

The quickly falling darkness made the street grow an oppressive atmosphere. Few of the streetlights worked, and those that did were dim and flickering. It felt like someone else’s territory, and it probably was by now.

“Yeah,” Yuri agreed. His shoulders were up, both with cold and tension. Otabek still looked unaffected, only slightly more concentrated. The way he held one hand behind his back made Yuri think he was carrying a weapon, but when he looked again, Otabek’s hand was in the back pocket of his jeans, and that was entirely normal.

A few men followed them back to the metro station, staying at a distance, but unequivocally there.

The metro was more crowded as they headed back to the restaurant, and Otabek herded Yuri into a corner between the wall of the train and a plexiglass separator, then stood in front of him to block the crowd. It was kind of nice, but also kind of patronising. Yuri decided he was too cold to argue, and every time he shivered despite his lumpy, down-filled coat, Otabek looked at him with a frown, but not angrily.

“I didn’t know it was one of his work duties to take you to school,” Mila said even before Yuri set foot back in the shop. She was smoking outside by the bins where the bucket for an ashtray was. Otabek said nothing but joined her with a cigarette of his own while Yuri stared in growing disgust and disappointment.

“It’s not,” Yuri said, idling with them for a moment despite the air pollution. The alley didn’t get much direct daylight so it was cold and snow-encrusted late into the spring. He glanced at Otabek. “Didn’t Grandpa tell you what happened?”

“Yeah, but.” Mila dumped her smoke into the bucket. Yuri swore there was a sifting of soot on the snow around the area. “Was it really that serious? Remember that time someone chucked a burning rock through the window just before closing?”

“I remember,” Yuri said. Fear always made him colder than snow and ice and sub-zero temperatures. That rock, although ultimately quite ineffective in that it didn’t do much except break the window and melt the plastic on one of the booth benches and cause a terrible stink, had been part of the same landslide of events that had taken Yuri’s mother. He remembered it very well.

Otabek was looking at him with a frown again.

“Let’s go in. I bet you’re starving.” Mila took his sleeve and pulled. “Sorry to leave you alone, Otabek.”

Otabek shrugged without taking his eyes off Yuri, who shied away instead, ducking his head down as Mila drew him into the boiling hot kitchen. “It was Grandpa’s idea,” he muttered.

“I know,” Mila said and gave Yuri’s shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “To be fair to Uncle Kolya, I think he did the right thing.”

Yuri shied away from her too, getting his coat and backpack into the office before foraging around the kitchen for scraps and leftovers for his meal. There were a few customers but no Grandpa or Uncle Yasha so he didn’t want to ask Uncle Sima to fix him anything. Mila gave him a great slab of freshly baked black bread and butter, and Sima shoved a plate of blini rejects at him anyway. Afterwards Yuri raided the walk-in for pickles and jam and sour cream and a bit of meat jelly. He ensconced himself in the office to eat and booted up the ancient computer.

The car’s headlights were eyes in the dark. _We’re watching you,_ they’d said. That’s how it always started.


	4. Saturday, 18th of January

Like any teenager, Yuri loved the weekend. Not for parties, or for getting to sleep late, because he still had to get up to go to the shop. This time he wasn’t startled by Otabek waiting quietly in the dark hallway, just greeted him with an upward nod and they walked over together in the dark and frozen morning. It was colder than the day before and Otabek showed Yuri the little tube of chapstick he’d already procured somewhere.

No, Yuri loved the weekend for a different reason. Saturdays he enjoyed because it was baking day at the shop, and Sundays he looked forwards to because they were his days off. Saturday and Sunday evenings also meant spending time at Yakov’s boxing gym. It was one of the rare things his grandfather let him do without question. Before he’d spent the odd evening with friends and taken lessons from Aunt Lilia.

Grandpa would come in an hour later, but it gave Yuri, and usually Mila, and now Otabek, just enough time to start on the fillings and doughs for the variety of piroshki and vareniki they made. Uncle Sima took little part in the baking, but would come in for any regular customers, although Grandpa often sent him home early.

Yuri left Otabek outside the back door to finish his smoke and went around turning on lights and the kettle to get a cup of tea to warm himself up. He stood in the office for a minute, waiting for whatever warning or fear-mongering tactic that might come, but there was no car, no death threats in the mail, no rocks thrown through the window. Only Otabek, who walked up to the office and gave him a look.

“You okay?” he asked, hanging up his coat and hoodie.

“Fine,” Yuri said automatically and heard the kettle click off.

“Need to practise making blini,” Otabek said as he walked back out. “You want some?”

Yuri followed him and made his cup of tea, then made another and placed it by Otabek where he was mixing the batter. “Thanks,” he said. “But who the fuck needs to practise making _blini?_ ”

“This fuck,” Otabek said.

“Okay.” Yuri leaned his hip against one of the prep tables in the middle, watching as Otabek put together a quick batter. “Thanks,” he repeated.

Otabek gave him a quick look, tilting his head a little, but Yuri understood the question.

“For the blini,” he elaborated. “And... for yesterday.”

Otabek picked up the tea and tasted it. “Okay,” he said and moved to the stove to turn on the gas for the cast iron skillet. He poured a ladle of batter into it, holding the cup in his other hand.

“You’re just making crepes, by the way,” Yuri muttered, looking around the kitchen. “Blini are yeasted.”

The ceramic tile floor was worn in front of the stove and by the back door, and chipped away from the freezer where it’d flooded a few times when melted out. He did it mostly to avoid Otabek’s eyes, but also to take comfort in the familiar embroidered tea towels that still hung, unused, on the hooks on the wall. Some had been made by his grandmother, some by his mother. The stainless steel prep tables were still stainless, but the tops were worn and no longer shiny. One of the knife blocks was uneven on its base because it was Yuri’s old woodworking project from school.

It was home as much as where he slept was home.

“Then it’s crepes for breakfast,” Otabek said, ending Yuri’s wistful examination of the space.

“Fine by me.” Yuri hid his smile in his cup. The smile turned into a short laugh when Otabek scraped the first ruined pancake into the bin. Afterwards Otabek kept his eyes firmly on the skillet, one hand leisurely in the back pocket of his jeans.

Yuri was not proud that he watched Otabek for the duration of his tea and only then began getting the ingredients together for the fillings, rinsing out some rice and dumping a pile of potatoes, carrots and beets into the sink to be peeled later by someone else. There was an ancient mixer with a dough hook which he dragged out and set up to start on the piroshki dough, which was his favourite.

Mila came in not soon after they’d eaten the crepes with sour cream and leftover salmon and immediately took Otabek outside for a smoke break. Yuri made sure they registered his distaste for the habit and stayed behind to cover his second batch of dough to proof.

“Good work, Yurochka,” Grandpa said upon inspecting the doughs a little later. Even though the same or similar words were spoken nearly every Saturday, their meaning wasn’t diminished in the slightest.

“Thanks, Grandpa.” Yuri liked working with yeast. The scent was comforting.

“Also acceptable.” Grandpa continued his tour of the various ingredients having been peeled and chopped and cooked, most of which had been done by Mila and Otabek.

“Thank you, Uncle!” Mila said, swaying to the music from the old radio. They’d turned the volume down when Grandpa had come. It only got one decent station anyway, and only on clear days.

Otabek gestured to the leftover apples and there was a conversation Yuri couldn’t hear despite sidling closer. There was too much going on. The sizzle of meat and onions being browned, the clank of the old mixer, the Russian pop music, and the _chok_ of Otabek’s knife that didn’t stop even when he spoke.

“Yes, yes, do whatever you want,” Grandpa finally said, moving away. “Yurochka, let’s start rolling out the dough. We’ll make the savoury pies first.”

Yuri wiped down the counter and floured it generously, then punched back the first dough and tipped it onto the flour-covered surface. Dough-work wasn’t bad and didn’t require manual dexterity, only strong shoulders. “Grandpa,” he said while his grandfather took off his knitted gloves and rolled up the sleeves of his button-up.

“Yes, Yurochka?”

“What’d Otabek want?”

“Oh,” Grandpa said. “I don’t know. He wanted the apples.”

“What for?”

“No idea, but they’re just apples.”

Yuri handed his grandfather the old, wooden rolling pin. The only one his grandfather ever wanted to use. He stepped closer and spoke even quieter. “Where’d you find him?”

“He’s the son of someone I know,” Grandpa said, spreading flour on the rolling pin with his hand and looked at Yuri over his half-moon reading glasses. “Curious today.”

“He’s just not the kind of people you usually bring here,” Yuri muttered. Grandpa didn’t say anything because he didn’t have to. His word was law, and Yuri was used to everyone being much older than him, usually his grandfather’s generation. Mila had been the only exception for a long time, and the next youngest from her had been Georgi, and he’d already moved along. Viktor had never worked there, and so Otabek was very much an outlier.

Yuri glanced over his shoulder at Otabek who was looking at them openly, quartering the apples. He very purposefully stopped and flipped the knife around in the air, meeting Yuri’s gaze. Yuri snapped his eyes back around to get the cutter ready to portion out the piroshki blanks from the dough slab.

Yuri left the vareniki dough and filling everything to his Grandpa and the two others and sat in the office for a few hours, going through the books. The amounts moved through the shop weren’t massive, but the shop wasn’t massive either. He watched the goings-on in the kitchen while the ancient OS considered its options as he saved and backed up his work. By the time he was done, the temperature had risen enough for the back door to be propped open permanently. Uncle Sima had come to feed the regulars and even Granny Lyusenka stopped by to pick up the baskets of fresh baked goods.

Yuri idled in the office chair until his grandfather came in. “Up, up, Yurochka. I’ve been on my feet all morning. Let an old man sit.”

“Sorry, Grandpa,” Yuri said and hid his guilty pleasure of skimming celebrity blogs. “All the baking done?”

“For today,” Nikolai said and groaned as he sat. “Ahh, that’s nice. Fetch me some tea and some of the sour cherry buns we just made.”

Saturdays were good. Everything smelled amazing. There were heaps of fresh, steaming pies and buns to sample, and to freeze, and for Yuri to take around the block and farther. Mila was cheerful in her red apron, Otabek’s was dusted with flour from knee to neck. Yuri brought a plate and a cup to his grandfather and then leaned on the desk to keep him company while they both nibbled on hot piroshki.

“Take the usual amount to Yasha’s,” Nikolai said. “I assume you’re going anyway.”

“Yeah, if you don’t need me here.”

Nikolai reached over and patted Yuri’s arm. “I can handle it. Take the Altin boy with you.”

“What? Why?” Yuri asked although he wasn’t opposed to the idea.

“Show him around. Have him help carry the pies.” Grandpa shrugged. “He needs to know where the gym is just in case.”

“Oh, okay,” Yuri said, peering through the office door into the kitchen where Otabek was just looking into the oven where he’d put the leftover apples in a round dish. He’d slightly softened them in butter and sugar earlier, and they smelled delicious.

“Do you need money?” Grandpa asked, snapping Yuri back to the conversation, but Grandpa had already taken out his wallet, counting out a stack of rubles. “Do you have everything you need for school?”

“Grandpa,” Yuri protested, but took the money. He didn’t feel guilty about it. They lived comfortably, if not lavishly, and Yuri wasn’t foolish enough to think that the shop was Grandpa’s only means of income. He was sure at least some of the tenants paid rent too. “I’m not a baby. I’ve got everything.”

“I know you like to buy clothes,” Grandpa said. Yuri looked at himself automatically, the white long-sleeved shirt he’d worn that was filled with tiny pastel cat faces in pink, blue, yellow, and green.

“Sorry,” Yuri said. He was supposed to dress more sensibly. He was a man. Men didn’t wear pastel anything, or have sparkly phone cases.

“No.” Grandpa waved his hand. “Ksanochka was the same. A new dress or two was all she ever wanted when she was little. If that makes you happy too, who am I to stop you? Just-” He pointed at Yuri’s ripped jeans. “Buy clothes that are whole, all right?”

“Grandpa!” Yuri laughed despite the catch in his throat at the mention of his mother and being compared to her. “It’s the fashion.”

“My cardigans have holes and those are moth-work, but this is fashion?” Nikolai said fondly. “Your pants look like Potyanka played too rough with them.”

Yuri snorted with laughter again and leaned down to give his grandfather a hug. “Okay, old man, I’m gonna get the buns for Uncle Yasha and go now. Call me if you need anything.”

Grandpa patted his back. “And you call me if anything happens. Anything.” His voice was gruff.

“I’ve got my phones,” Yuri said dutifully. He’d learned that a touchscreen became unusable with bloody hands so he made sure to keep the other phone with him at all times. He’d never asked what happened to the man who’d attacked him and his mother with a knife. The odds were he hadn’t been caught, but Yuri wanted to trust his grandfather when he said he’d take care of everything. He just wished it happened _faster_. And that he could wield the knife the next time.

The pastries were already packed so Yuri merely looked them over before getting caught in watching as Otabek took his pan of apples out of the oven. He lifted the lid to reveal a dark and caramelised end product, nodded at it, and put the lid back on.

“You done with that?” Yuri asked.

“Yeah,” Otabek said.

“Grandpa said to come with me,” Yuri continued.

“You’re leaving now?” Mila asked across the kitchen, turning down the music again. “Last smoke break?”

“No!” Yuri protested. “No smoke breaks!”

“Just a quick one?” Mila had already dug out her cigarettes and a lighter, waggling them at Otabek.

“Oh my God,” Yuri said and stomped over to get his hoodie and coat. “Fine. Hurry the fuck up and inhale your cancer then.” He went out with them, holding the baskets of pies, standing upwind of the smoke, scowling.

Mila had thrown on a cardigan and lit Otabek’s cigarette from the end of hers, face to face. “Those apples were in the oven for over six hours,” she said, leaning back to exhale. “What’re you up to?”

“Tarte tatin,” Otabek said. They stood familiarly shoulder to shoulder, and Yuri felt like an intruder.

“Fancy,” Mila said. “Hear that, Yura? _French_ pastry.”

Yuri grunted. “Never heard.”

“I thought you were a butcher,” Mila said to Otabek. “But now you’re a pastry chef?”

“Lotsa apples at home,” Otabek said.

“A butcher?” Yuri put in. That could have a completely different connotation in the world they were connected to.

“Worked in my father’s butchershop.” Otabek looked past Mila at him, eyes glowing with the ember of his cigarette when he inhaled. The alley was always in shadow, but even darker with the sun already so low. The sky was otherwise clear but had the wispy high clouds that looked like combed silk strands, indicating a pressure shift. More snow was on the way.

“Let’s go already,” Yuri said, grown in impatience. “The pastries are supposed to be fresh, not frozen.” He started off, not looking back.

“No one said to bring them out!” Mila called after him.

Otabek caught up without a word and took the other basket from Yuri. He didn’t ask where they were going or complain about the wind that had picked up, bringing the temperature further down. The wind pushed loose snow across the roads in strange flurries.

*

The story went Uncle Yasha and Aunt Lilia had met because Uncle Yasha had established his boxing gym in the same building where Aunt Lilia had her ballet studio. Now the ballet studio no longer existed and the boxing gym had taken over that space as well. Some of the practice barres were still there, behind the second boxing ring, and the full-length mirrors had never been taken down.

Yuri’s mother, Kseniya, had been a ballet dancer and Yuri had taken lessons at Aunt Lilia’s studio because of that, but he’d quit when the studio had closed. Afterwards Yuri migrated to Uncle Yasha’s side to learn boxing instead. Learning to hit people had felt, to an angry and frustrated teenager, like a better use of his time. And later, it had helped with the grieving.

On the weekends it was usually where Uncle Yasha and his court could be found. Aunt Lilia was there more often than not, as well. She had transformed from a ballet madame to a bookie, just like Yuri had transformed from a ballet ingenue to a glorified waiter and boxing hobbyist. The gym was where Uncle Yasha ran his journeyman business, coaching boxers to lose for a paycheck. A legal front for extortion, fixed matches as well as underground cage fighting and gambling.

Yuri was greeted by raised hands and a few call-outs when he arrived. The place was always busy with men and women in various stages of training. Georgi was sweating in the ring with another middleweight fighter, while Face Nikiforov simpered at Tall Man Christophe in Aunt Lilia’s corner.

Yuri trod over, Otabek in tow, scowling at Viktor’s wide smile and Christophe’s wink. Aunt Lilia was seated in her massive wingback chair, counting money onto her desk.

“Yuranechka!” Viktor greeted him. “You said nothing, you little housecat! Your new employee is more than just a nice face.”

“What the fuck?” Yuri growled, shoving Viktor away and slamming the basket on Lilia’s desk. “What do you mean, _Vitechka?_ ”

Viktor slung an arm around both Yuri and Otabek’s shoulders, pulling them close. “Come on now, let’s make up and be friends. Let Tabik show us what he’s got.”

“Tabik.” Yuri recoiled, both from the unwanted embrace and the diminutive name afforded to Otabek that felt wrong on all levels. Otabek, to Yuri’s slight delight, also didn’t look thrilled with either the embrace or the nickname, but he also didn’t argue. “Where’s Uncle Yasha?” Yuri asked.

“Out,” Aunt Lilia answered. She stood up to peer into the baskets on her desk, inured to the sound of fists hitting flesh or punching bags that was all around. “Thank your grandfather for the pastries.”

“Yeah, of course-” Another arm on Yuri’s shoulders ended his words prematurely. This time it was Christophe.

“I didn’t know you boxed too, _gattino_ ,” Christophe murmured right into his ear. “I’d like to see that.”

Aunt Lilia cleared her throat and tapped her cigarette holder against the edge of her ashtray. “Clear off, gentlemen,” she said coldly. “You’re holding up my business.” She gestured behind them at a queue that was forming. Saturdays were busy. Fight nights.

“Sorry, Auntie!” Viktor said and steered Otabek away, towards the ring where Georgi was panting against the ropes. Christophe attempted to do the same to Yuri, but Yuri elbowed him hard in the liver, and found Otabek looking over his shoulder when he tore free, not at him, but at the Tall Man now doubled over. His “nice face” had darkened.

Yuri rushed after Viktor and Otabek and pushed between them. “Just how much do you tell the foreigner about other people’s business?” he demanded. “Ever considered keeping your mouth shut? Permanently?”

“Yurechka,” Viktor smarmed. “How about a little practice match between you and Tabik here?” Viktor fluttered his lashes, placing a finger on his cheek like some third-rate Korean pop star.

“Not a boxer,” Otabek said.

“Oh, but I heard otherwise,” Viktor trilled. Christophe had drawn closer again and was grinning despite recent wounds to both pride and body. “Who do you think did all the background checks on you, Otabek Ayukuly Altin?”

Otabek’s face became furious, but he quickly hid it under another hooded expression, pulling away. His hands had become fists.

Yuri felt left out and stepped closer to Viktor. At least he was the devil Yuri knew. “Background checks?” he asked because Otabek just clammed up further.

“Oh dear, oh no, such tragedy, I’ve spoken out of turn.” Viktor put his wrist to his forehead, but quickly dropped it too. “Yurionok, agree to the match and I’ll tell you _all_ the juicy details.” Viktor put his arm on Yuri’s shoulders again, drawing him close. “And I’ll make sure Uncle Kolya lets you have a nice, big party for your 18th birthday.”

“I just brought the piroshki, I’m not here to...” Yuri trailed off, considering Viktor’s offer. The man made his living out of manipulating others, but the offer was good. Just one flaw. “Don’t think Grandpa is gonna listen to you, Vitya.”

“No, but he might listen to Uncle Yasha.” Viktor smiled at him this time, just smiled, like an older brother. Only slightly annoying. “Hmm? Sound like a deal?”

“No,” Yuri muttered, shoving him away. Not because he wasn’t burning to know about Otabek, or why a dishwasher at his Grandpa’s restaurant required background checks by Uncle Yasha’s underboss. Grandpa had just said Otabek was the son of an old friend of his. “Not dressed for it. Not warmed up. No.” He shook his head, trying to convince himself this was the right thing to do.

Otabek had already backed away, but hadn’t left. He stood there with his head lowered and hands balled into fists, glaring at Viktor from under his eyebrows. “If I gotta fight someone, I’ll fight him,” he said, nodding towards Georgi who was resting against the ropes now.

“Fight?” Viktor let go of Yuri like yesterday’s fish. “This isn’t that kind of an establishment, Tabik. We box, we don’t _fight_.”

“ _We_ don’t do shit,” Yuri argued. What was the difference between fighting and boxing? “You’ve never even been in the ring, Face.”

“Oh, don’t start calling me that again,” Viktor pleaded, a slight whine in his voice. “My face is nothing special.” He belied his words entirely by turning his face towards the light, letting it paint out his best angles. “Come back tonight! Just a friendly little match. Think it through. I’ve got some money riding on it,” he added the last in a hiss, briefly leaning close to Yuri. “Bye!”

Yuri banged out of the gym without a word, letting the wind tear at his open coat on the street, too fury-filled to care about the cold. Otabek hung at his elbow, face turned down, away from the biting wind. Or hopefully with shame.

“Don’t ever fucking patronise me like that again,” Yuri spat. He couldn’t shake Otabek no matter how fast he walked. “Do you think you were gonna hurt me?”

“Don’t want to risk it,” were Otabek’s first words since the gym. “Do you even fight?”

“Fight? Box? What’s the difference? And I do!” Yuri pulled his coat shut, angry that the cold could steal his thunder like that.

“The man in the ring was more my weight class,” Otabek said. “And not my boss’ grandson.”

Yuri fought with his coat, the wind, his phone, the rhinestones of which were causing it to stick to his pocket, and the notion that he should be any different than anyone just because of who his grandfather was. “Do you think I would fucking rat you out if we did box?”

There was nothing but cold and wind and darkness for an answer although Otabek remained by his side, quiet and down-turned. On crossing the street the wind was so harsh and the tiny, sharp snow crystals so abundant it felt like Yuri’s cheeks were being rubbed raw. His own hair whipped him across the face. But it wasn’t what was making him angry. It was _unfair._ No one had told him why Otabek needed background checks. No one had told him so Viktor could try to manipulate him and prove that he was never going to be in the loop.

“You wouldn’t beat me in a fair fight.” The words came so suddenly that Yuri whipped around to look at Otabek who still had his head bent. He looked more like a bull ready to charge than a contrite man. “If _Viktor_ ,” said with loathing, “really did any background checks, he’d know that. He’s baiting you.”

“I know that!” Yuri said as soon as he got his words back. “He’s been doing that shit all my life!” Sometimes Viktor could be an ally, but most of the time he was more trouble than worth. “It’s that he knows no-one tells me anything and makes fun of it,” Yuri added bitterly.

Snow had begun to come down in flurries, a car drove by slowly, fog lights on, making Yuri freeze between one step and the next. He stared into the lights coming down the street until Otabek blocked them by stepping in front of Yuri.

“Ignore him,” Otabek said. The car turned down a different street, leaving sunspots in Yuri’s eyes. Everything blurred and his head pounded furiously.

Otabek’s eyes gleamed from under the rim of his hood. The sky was red with clouds again and sharp-edged snow veiled the concrete and brick of the Moscow suburb, ash grey in the dark and bright white under the few streetlights. Yuri shivered violently, cold lancing through his body. His mouth felt numb and blood rushed in his ears so loudly he heard nothing.

“Yuri. Hey? You okay?” Otabek nudged Yuri’s shoulder hard and Yuri almost lost his footing on the piles of re-frozen snow and ice.

“What?” he said, out of breath, cold sweat gathering between his shoulderblades.

“You okay?” Otabek repeated.

“I- What?” Yuri said. The wind had blown his hood away.

“What happened?” Otabek asked. “You just stopped.”

“I’m fine,” Yuri said, face stinging with the wind. He pulled up his hood although his hands shook. “Thought the car was gonna drive over me,” he lied, not sure what had happened either.

Otabek’s face was dark in the shadow of his hood and he grunted in disbelief. “Okay.”

“I’m going home,” Yuri said. The irritation caused by Viktor welled up again. That asshole had ruined Yuri’s evening, and Otabek wasn’t making it much better by reminding Yuri that there were all these things he didn’t know.

Otabek followed Yuri to the apartment building, but didn’t come in with him.


	5. Sunday, 19th of January

The shop wasn’t open on Sundays, but that didn’t mean Yuri got to sleep in. He still got up and went to the Sunday service with his grandfather, which officially started anywhere between 9 and 10am, but actually was just a continuation of the all-night vigil of Sunday Eve.

Yuri didn’t kiss the icons or take part in the eucharist, but he sang the liturgy obediently and stood for a few hours making signs of the cross, staring at the iconostasis and worrying whether this was the time his grandfather’s back was finally going to give out. The old man refused to sit. After the service he shook and his face was mottled red and white in pain.

Grandpa had always taught the Sunday service was the time to take stock of the week and reset the mind. Yuri’s mind rarely had the opportunity to quiet down and the service wasn’t long enough to settle him. This Sunday was no exception. His thoughts circled the drain of his conscious, eager to leave behind a childhood that he felt had ended a long time ago already, but still apprehensive of his choices. Or rather, his lack of them, and the grating reality of his choices being made for him by others.

“How do you like him?” Grandpa asked in the car on the way back. There were more lines on his face than usual, from tiredness and from the pain of standing up for the whole liturgy. He didn’t have to stand, but he insisted on it because he was a stubborn old goat.

“Who?” Yuri asked, sunk into his seat as far as the legroom allowed.

“The new hire.”

“Oh.” Yuri had known, of course, who his grandfather was talking about. “He’s fine.”

“And you like him?” Grandpa prompted.

Yuri stole a glance at his grandfather, but Nikolai was looking forwards, following the traffic lights. “So far.” He liked Otabek’s knife-flipping skills. But that wasn’t what Grandpa had asked, and it wasn’t what Yuri wanted to share.

“I want you to be able to work with him,” Grandpa said. “It’s a small kitchen.”

“Yeah,” Yuri agreed. “He’s fine,” he repeated. “As far as I know,” he added, but Grandpa didn’t take the bait, or didn’t know what Yuri was referring to. The issue of background checks still weighed on him.

Grandpa continue the conversation, but Yuri understood. Everyone else had always been there. He’d even known Mila for ages before she’d come to work for Grandpa, so there was no need to worry if they could work together. All the uncles were familiar, but Otabek came from the outside, a completely new person. It made sense that he’d ask after him.

Yuri wanted to ask too. Ask about whatever Viktor had hinted about and whatever Otabek refused to share. Yuri wanted the information, but without having to dance to Viktor’s tune. He hoped Viktor wasn’t going to be at the gym today so he could finally get in a workout.

Nikolai waved Yuri away at the stairs when they got back home, not accepting any help from him to climb to the top. They stopped on each floor to greet some of the other tenants, which Yuri knew was just a way to let Grandpa rest his back. Yuri had suggested they move to the ground floor some months ago, but Grandpa had been angry and adamant he wasn’t an invalid yet. Yuri still walked up slowly with him, but stopped outside their door to orient himself. It smelled wrong. Not bad, just wrong.

“Grandpa,” he said, but Nikolai grunted and took the keys from him to go in.

“It’s just the Altin boy,” he said. “I asked him to cook something.”

Yuri stalled outside, taking in the scent of unfamiliar food that flooded the corridor through the open door. “ _Why?_ ” he pouted. He cooked together with Grandpa on Sundays. It was important. More important than the church. Every other day they ate at the shop.

“Because he’s working at my restaurant,” Nikolai raised his voice. Otabek appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing Grandpa’s apron and holding a wooden spoon. He nodded at Nikolai, then stared at Yuri for a second before going back in.

Yuri dropped his coat on the floor and kicked his boots off into the corner. “As a dishwasher!” he said.

“Don’t give me lip, boy,” Nikolai growled. “Hang up your coat.”

Yuri stomped back, kicked his shoes out of the way and scooped up his coat, flinging it onto a hook, and then fled into his room, only to come back out when he noticed Potya wasn’t in her usual spot. “You let a stranger into our home! He could be a murderer! Where’s my cat!”

“Your damn cat is here!” Nikolai barked from the kitchen.

Yuri stormed into the kitchen to find his grandfather seated at the table, next to another pulled-out chair with Potya neatly seated on it. She stood up and rubbed against the back of the chair when she saw Yuri, unharmed and happy. Otabek was leaning on the sink counter, arms crossed and eyes locked onto Yuri the moment he stepped in.

“He’s not a stranger,” Nikolai said, gesturing at Otabek. “And you still liked him a moment ago.”

“Yeah, before you let him in here!” Yuri picked up his cat, feeling ridiculous and furious at being outed as someone who _maybe_ didn’t find Otabek terrible. And being someone even his own grandfather told _nothing_. “I don’t know anything about him!”

Instead of admitting to any background checking, Nikolai slammed his fist against the table, startling Potya so badly she skidded over Yuri’s shoulder, leaving clawmarks, and ran out of the room. “Sit down!”

Yuri sat, pushed down by the pressure of his grandfather’s voice and Otabek’s eyes. The sting and burn of the scratches on his neck came a second later and he pressed his hand over them, grimacing. “No offence, Otabek,” he muttered reluctantly and Grandpa grunted.

“None taken,” Otabek said.

The table was set for three. There were even napkins, folded in a utilitarian manner under the bowls. Yuri didn’t remember when was the last time he’d bothered with napkins at home, he didn’t even remember buying any. Kitchen roll was good enough. The napkins had a pattern of Christmas bells on them, and Yuri picked his up, shredding it between his fingers as Otabek took Grandpa’s ceramic oven dish out of the oven and placed it on the stovetop. It smelled amazing, garlicky and peppery.

This wasn’t the kind of family dinner Yuri wanted. Otabek had been there less than a week.

“Are you going to Yasha’s today?” Grandpa asked much more kindly.

“What do you care?” Yuri said, not ready to let go of his grudge. Steam billowed from the dish when Otabek took off the lid and peered in. Otabek nodded with satisfaction and brought the dish over to the table, revealing a stew of red meat and vegetables. Lamb and pork, Yuri guessed from the smell.

“What did you say?” Grandpa thundered, almost standing up from his seat.

“Why don’t you just tell me what you want me to do, old man!” Yuri yelled back. “You act as though I have a choice and when I choose something you tell me it’s not gonna happen!”

“All I want for you is to be safe!” Grandpa roared. “But you find it more amusing to throw all my care back in my face!”

“I do not!” Yuri cried. “I just want you to stop treating me as a child!”

“When you stop behaving like one, I will!”

There was a booming silence, only filled with the quiet bubbling from the dish and the ticking of the old-fashioned wall clock. Then Grandpa cleared his throat.

“Grab us something to drink, Yura,” he said.

Yuri swallowed against the bitter taste and got the two-litre bottle of Grandpa’s homemade kvass from the cabinet where he stored the drink in its various stages of fermentation. He came face to face with Otabek when turning back towards the table and realised Otabek was holding a loaf of freshly made black bread in his hands.

“You made that too?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Otabek shrugged.

“I guess Grandpa got you to replace the useless grandson he currently has,” Yuri muttered through the bit in his throat and slammed the bottle down on the table, knowing it’d fizz over when opened. “Yesterday you couldn’t even make fucking blini!”

“Yura!” Grandpa said instantly, then reached over and tugged him back down by his sleeve. “Yurochka, what’s gotten into you today?”

“What do you mean _today?_ ” Yuri pouted. Otabek sat down opposite him, placing the loaf onto a tea towel on the table. “Isn’t this just more of the same? You don’t want me to be in the business. You don’t even want me to make a Sunday meal anymore!”

Otabek got up immediately, untying the apron and folding it. “I’ll go. Enjoy the food.”

“No, sit down.” Grandpa gestured impatiently at him, then glared at Yuri. “Either you behave or you go to your room,” he threatened.

Yuri ducked his head and aimed his scowl at his plate, and when he got down to the business of eating, he found the food to be delicious. He looked up and gave Otabek a grudging nod and was repaid with an upward nod of acknowledgement. He wasn’t mad at Otabek, after all. Even Potya received her share when she came back into the kitchen, which did more to soothe Yuri over than anything else. Otabek had prepared a dish of boiled chicken for her.

There was even dessert afterwards: an apple tart. Yuri picked the layers of flaky pastry and gleaming apple-jelly apart with his fork and glared across the table at Otabek who had just placed cups of tea in front of all of them. He’d used Grandmama’s nice cups that’d been stored in the glass-faced cabinet for a long time.

“You did not make this,” Yuri growled, challenging, still in the mood to vent.

“Not today,” Otabek admitted. “It’s the apples from yesterday.”

Yuri tried to hate the dessert, but it was too good for that. He aimed his agitation at his grandfather, at Potya, at Otabek and at himself in turns, trying to find somewhere it fit. In the end he cast it outside at Viktor and the nameless, faceless, traceless man who had killed his mother.

He didn’t finish his piece of the tart, but Grandpa let him go this time, content to sip at his tea and strike up a murmured conversation with Otabek once Yuri was out of the room. He lingered around the corner, but they merely discussed the diner so Yuri went into his room, throwing himself on his bed. Potya settled on top of him, purring with her belly full.

The drone of her purr soothed Yuri to the point where he was able to gather his homework onto the bed and start looking it over. He didn’t want it hanging over his head when he went to the gym. Despite yelling at his grandfather about it, he was set on going. And when resentment took him over again, he buried his face in Potya’s sweet-smelling fur.

A knock on the doorframe made Yuri look up. Grandpa didn’t knock so he wasn’t surprised to see Otabek there. “What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

“And yet,” Yuri said. “You’re here.”

“What’s that?” Otabek asked, gesturing at the books and notebooks open in Yuri’s lap and across his bed. Potya was asleep on a decoy book.

“My homework. You gonna do that too?” Yuri challenged. “Why don’t you just move in and go to school instead of me?”

Otabek crossed his arms, which made his biceps bulge, and leaned against the doorframe. “No.”

Yuri hated himself for looking. He folded over his crossed legs and trapped his homework under himself. “Do you have something to say?”

“Boss said you’re an only child.” Otabek was looking around Yuri’s room and Yuri felt, for a moment, like he should’ve tidied up his room. Maybe picked up the clothes which he had a habit of dropping wherever when he undressed. His desk was full of junk, which was why he was doing his homework on the bed. Other than that, his room was sparse. A lot still resided in the apartment next door where he’d lived with his mother before her death. He just didn’t want to go back there.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Yuri groaned. “That I’m some spoiled idiot?”

“And your parents-”

“Gone! Both gone,” Yuri cut him off furiously. He didn’t want to talk about it.

“Can’t imagine what it’s like,” Otabek continued. “Got four older siblings. Had a lot of extra people on top of my parents telling me what to do. But you got neither and there’s still a lot of people telling you what to do.”

Yuri picked himself up slowly, mostly to glare at Otabek. Sore spot. “Yeah? Guess I just have that kinda face,” he muttered, “that people love to tell me how to run my life.” But he latched onto Otabek’s apparent mood to share.

“Yesterday,” he said. “You looked like you were gonna punch Vitya when he opened his big mouth.” Yuri picked up his pencil and rolled it between his fingers. “And I would’ve loved to have seen him have his teeth punched in, but what the fuck was that whole background checks thing?” He was still sore no one had told him. Not even his grandfather. Especially because his grandfather hadn’t told him.

“Did some time for carjacking. Guess it was that.”

The hoarse laugh came up before Yuri could really plumb his feelings on the matter. “Carjacking? Guess it’s not really popping with entertainment where you’re from.”

“Yeah, not around where I grew up,” Otabek confirmed. “Left school at 12, worked on and off for my dad at his butchershop. Did some other stuff. Came here. Background checked.”

“Left school at 12?” Yuri dropped his pencil and let it roll off the page of his maths book and under his knee. Potya looked up with her cheek flat from leaning on it, debating whether to chase. Yuri had never missed school. Not really. He’d also never been given the choice of leaving. Fuck, he was _still_ in school, even though the upper secondary education wasn’t obligatory. And he’d looked into applying to universities afterwards. “Do you know how to read?”

Otabek exhaled with a soft huff. His face didn’t move much, but it looked less foreboding. “Just a dishwasher. Isn’t that what you said? What do I need to be literate for?”

Yuri snorted loud enough to make Potya lift her head again and give him a bleary look. “Go wash the dishes, then.”

“Okay,” Otabek said with the faintest upturn of his lips.

“Okay,” Yuri repeated, not releasing the laughter he felt at the back of his throat. It made his voice different. “I’m going to Uncle Yasha’s later,” he added.

“Come get me on your way out,” Otabek said and pushed off the doorframe. “Wanna see what you’re made of.”

“Yeah, same,” Yuri said. Otabek’s short review of his life hadn’t included the bit where he’d learned to _fight_.

Otabek nodded and left without another word.

*

“Grandpa, you okay?” Yuri asked after Otabek had finished in the kitchen, and Yuri had found it safe to come out of his room again.

“Just tired, Yurochka,” Grandpa replied. He took off his reading glasses and rubbed his face. Yuri picked up the quilt and laid it over his grandfather on the sofa.

“I’m going to Uncle Yasha’s now, if that’s okay,” Yuri said. “You’re good?”

“I’m fine.” Grandpa grasped Yuri’s hand and looked up at him. “Have you forgiven me?”

“I- Yeah,” Yuri admitted, folding down to kneel by the sofa. “I just wish you’d told me. I was surprised. You never invite people here and I guess I’m used to it being just the two of us now.”

“All right, all right,” Grandpa said and held open his arms for Yuri to give him a quick hug. “You’re taking him with you, then?”

“Yeah,” Yuri muttered and knelt by the sofa, resting his head on his arms. “He isn’t too bad.”

“You should apologise to him too,” Grandpa said, closing his eyes, although he put his hand on top of Yuri’s head and mussed his loose hair. “You did call him a murderer.”

“He could still be one,” Yuri sniffed, wounded from earlier.

“Would I put you in danger like that?”

 _Not on purpose,_ Yuri thought. “No,” he said grudgingly. “But.”

“But what, Yurochka?” Grandpa sighed.

“But I know nothing about him, really. I didn’t even know you’d hired someone new.” Yuri struggled to keep the blame out of his voice. “Vitya said-”

“You should know not to trust what Vitya says,” Grandpa interrupted him. “What’d he say?”

“Something about background checks.” Even if Otabek had already told him some things, he wanted Grandpa to admit it too.

Grandpa kept stroking Yuri’s hair and because he didn’t speak for a while, Yuri knew Viktor had actually said something truthful this time. “Of course we did background checks,” he finally said.

“We,” Yuri repeated. “Just not me.”

“He’ll tell you if he wants to.”

“Everyone else already knew! It’s unfair.” Yuri couldn’t keep the blame out this time. Grandpa took away his hand.

“I’m going to take a nap now,” Grandpa said, lacing his fingers together across his chest. “We checked just to make sure Otabek _wasn’t_ a murderer. He isn’t, and I know his father. The rest is what you’d expect from anyone in our world. He has a past, that’s all. Like everyone.”

“Not me,” Yuri said bitterly.

“Not you,” Grandpa agreed. “Because having a past like that will make sure you don’t have a future, and your future is why I’m doing this.”

Yuri had heard that before. His future. His future that he didn’t seem to have any say in, planned out by others. _Unfair._ “Can I have a birthday party?” he asked, barely above a mutter.

“Of course, Yurochka,” Grandpa said, gentling his voice. “We’ll have a party for you at the shop. It’ll be a big one this year.”

Yuri knew better than to argue. He sat by the sofa a little longer, listening to his grandfather breathe and fall asleep. A party at the shop meant it’d be just the uncles and him. He wanted a party like his classmates had. Maybe at a club. Loud music. Vodka that was for him. Dressing up. It was his 18th, it should be more than just a family occasion. It should be an actual celebration, not a business meeting. It should be _fun._

*

Almost every wall was tagged with a variety of messages from people with spray cans and something to say. The tags reached only as high as someone would standing on the street, and often covered shop windows too. Yuri had never found them threatening because it was what he was used to, and because it was _territory._ Not his, technically, but protected.

Most of the people who lived in those apartment blocks and warrens of small streets and dead ends had always lived there. The shopkeepers were all familiar faces and knew who he was, how he related to the people whose territory it was. It was a home village hidden in greater Moscow. There was always someone on the street corners, watching out.

Yuri and Otabek stopped at the little drugstore across the street from Grandpa’s restaurant and Yuri got them orange sodas. “Sorry,” he said over the crunch of the snow under their feet, handing the can to Otabek. “For calling you a murderer and all the yelling.”

Otabek nodded and lifted the can in acknowledgement. “No problem,” he murmured.

Uncle Yasha’s gym wasn’t far to walk to because nothing was far in the territory. Sundays were calmer days at the gym, usually with the addition of fresh bruises on many of the people. Uncle Yasha didn’t discriminate between genders and some of his street cats were women. Grandpa had told Yuri that in the old days the Brotherhood had not accepted women even in ancillary roles and that marriages and children had also been forbidden. Grandpa had mentioned that he’d tried to leave after marrying, but it hadn’t worked out quite like that in the end. And times had changed.

Grandmama had helped run the diner, so Yuri was sure she’d known about the money laundering too. Mama had probably known as well, and Yuri had wondered if that had been why she’d been killed. But that was the part his grandfather always left out.

Aunt Lilia wasn’t at the gym, but Uncle Yasha was. Yuri liked coming in on Sundays because that’s when Uncle Yasha usually had the time to teach him. Viktor wasn’t there either, but Georgi had joined Yakov. Georgi liked clean boxing; Viktor liked arranging and betting on matches rigged in his favour. There were others too, familiar faces, some who greeted Yuri and some who still sneered at him. He wasn’t one or the other, not part of the cats, but not apart from them either.

Yuri dumped his bag onto a bench and dropped his coat. He’d already put on sweats at home and just needed to replace his winter boots with indoor ones and get warmed up. He tied his hair back quickly, years of practise giving him an effortless and secure bun, and then started wrapping his hands. When he glanced up, Otabek was looking at him, at his hands. Yuri closed his fingers over his palm automatically and met Otabek’s eyes, but Otabek said nothing, just turned back to wrapping his own hands.

“Warm up first, Yurchik,” Uncle Yasha called out from the ring where he was sparring with Georgi. “Then come up here.”

“Got it,” Yuri replied with a wave. He didn’t put on the bulky gloves, but went to find a jumprope to warm up with. Watching Otabek take a look around the gym and head immediately for the punching bags reminded Yuri about the difference between fighting and boxing again.

The way Otabek approached the punching bag looked just liked boxing. He hadn’t worn the gloves yet either, but he kept his guard up, slapping at the bag a few times, feinting, and then barrelled into it, grappling and using his knee to what would be the gut of a person. Yuri faltered with his jumprope and stopped to watch the series of sharp little jabs Otabek tested next, with enough force to make the punching bag shudder from side to side. Knees definitely didn’t belong in boxing, and grappling only to a limited degree.

“All right, Yurchik, I’m ready for you,” Uncle Yasha said then, leaning over the ropes. “Warmed up?”

“Yeah,” Yuri said, dragging his eyes away from Otabek. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“I’ll watch your form,” Georgi promised, leaving the ring. He wasn’t half-bad at boxing, but thought he was better than he really was. And liked to pretend Yuri was his little student or something.

Yuri didn’t care one way or the other, but gave him a nod as he climbed in through the ropes Georgi was holding open for him. Like he needed it. That kind of behaviour just egged those people on who liked to call him out for his dancer’s past. Didn’t matter if he could’ve beaten them in the ring, they refused to fight him on account of being “afraid of ruining his pretty face”, which was always said in that _tone._ That smug, mocking tone of people who considered themselves superior and him a child.

They shut up for Viktor, though. Which was stupid and unfair because Viktor didn’t even box, and he was too good-looking, and pretended to be some gentleman of leisure, wearing fancy suits and long coats and sparkly rings on his little finger. But no one jeered at him. He could be unsettling. Yuri was a little envious of that quality.

Yuri got his gloves on, facing Uncle Yasha. “Sure you’re not too tired?” he asked. “Old man and all.”

Uncle Yasha bashed his gloves together. “Whippersnappers like you and Gosha can’t tire me out. You can dance all day long, but I’ll be there waiting for the right moment to strike.”

“Okay, okay.” Yuri grinned, relaxing a little. He held up his hands, touching his gloves to Uncle Yasha’s, then assumed the position. His footwork was great, he knew that, what they liked to call dancing. “Let’s go.”

Uncle Yasha grunted and put his guard up. He may have gotten fatter around the waist, but his arms were still muscled under the faded star tattoos. Yuri swiped at him a few times, just testing, knowing Yakov was tired even though he refused to admit it. The same kind of stubborn man like his grandfather, refusing to sit at mass. Probably the same attitude that’d carried them through their years in the north.

“Keep your weight on both legs, Yurik,” Georgi called out, unnecessarily, just when Uncle Yasha threw an uppercut. Yuri sidestepped it and deflected with an arm, but it left him too open and Uncle Yasha almost managed a jab to his nose with his left hand. Yuri ducked in time, danced away, and came back with a series of quick straight jabs of his own.

“Good job!” Georgi said.

Yuri liked to go for the face, or the head, but he tried to vary his angle and not be too obvious. He had the advantage of being light on his feet and the endurance and weightlessness of youth. He managed a hit to Yakov’s side, earning a surprised grunt from him.

“Okay?” Yuri asked. He hadn’t held back too much.

“Don’t stop until I tell you to, boy!” Uncle Yasha said in return.

“Keep going!” Georgi echoed. “Go for the left side!”

Yuri dodged a few thrown punches, knowing Yakov was being slow on purpose. Even though bruises were expected, they weren’t enjoyed. Uncle Yasha only _looked_ grim. Yuri landed another solid hit, received one to his shoulder in return, and retreated a little.

“Point your toes, pretty ballerina!” someone else than Georgi called out. “Put on a tutu and see if that makes you better!” Laughter followed and Yuri tensed up. Uncle Yasha dropped his fists, face going red with anger, but Yuri was faster. He leapt over the ropes and landed in front of the cat-caller, ready to show just how much he could pack in a punch.

He knew the man. Arkadi, who’d been a low-rent cat for Uncle Yasha for years, and took out his idiocy at others. Grandpa always told him to just ignore people who taunted him, but Yuri needed a place to vent his emotions today. Idiots were a great target. He almost made it to Arkadi before Georgi grabbed him and held him back.

“Kadko!” Uncle Yasha called out. “You answer to me!”

Arkadi didn’t get a chance to answer because Otabek came out of nowhere and punched him in the solar plexus so hard he crumpled on the floor, gasping for breath. In the moment of surprise, Yuri fought himself free of Georgi and drew up beside Otabek, who was giving the man on the floor a passive look.

“Sorry,” Otabek said then, turning to look at Yakov.

Uncle Yasha ignored him. “Gosha, get Kadko out of here,” he instructed, starting to undo the laces of his gloves. “Tell him he’s over with us. Yurchik, we’ll do this some other time.”

Yuri had too many words to speak any of them. He stalked over to the bench where he’d left his bag and started yanking the gloves off, while Georgi picked Arkadi up off the floor and booted him out. Otabek came to the bench, fixing the wraps on his hands absently.

“I didn’t need your help!” Yuri hissed.

Otabek looked at him, no pity. “Next time they’ll hold me back,” he said.

“So?” Yuri challenged, voice cracking. He couldn’t help the way he looked, or that he’d enjoyed dancing, or that he liked wearing colourful patterns that weren’t considered “manly”, or that he was gay, and no one knew, and he couldn’t tell anyone. He didn’t need _more_ bullshit like this. He didn’t need the tears of frustration that threatened.

“So you’ll get the free shot next time,” Otabek clarified.

Yuri stopped, one hand unwrapped already. “So I’ll-”

“Wanna spar?” Otabek nodded towards the ring. “You need a faster opponent to really learn.”

Yuri’s grandfather was on Yuri’s side, although sometimes it felt like he wasn’t. Yuri felt unfilial even thinking about it. Mila was probably on his side, given everything. Uncle Yasha and Aunt Lilia were provisionally on his side, but thought they knew better. Viktor was on the side of anyone whose interests aligned with his. Georgi was loyal to Yakov. But they were all family, sort of. Being on the same side was expected.

Otabek was just the new dishwasher. He didn’t need to pick sides.

“Yeah,” Yuri croaked.

Otabek smiled.


	6. Friday, 31st of January

“Do you know what’s my favourite holiday?” Yuri asked Otabek on a Friday evening a few weeks later. He was sitting on the prep table and swinging his legs, watching Otabek work. The restaurant was all but closed already, but Grandpa and Uncle Yasha were still in their booth, going over business that Yuri wasn’t allowed to hear or be near to so instead he idled in the kitchen, not helping with the tidying or closing procedures.

Otabek cranked the meat grinder to test it, having just reassembled it after cleaning. “No,” he said.

“It’s Cosmonautics Day!” Yuri declared. Otabek locked the grinder’s crank into place and covered it with a cloth without a comment. “Cosmonautics Day,” Yuri repeated, then sighed. He liked Otabek, he really did, he let Yuri be quiet or cranky or irritated or desperate without offering consolation or solutions and did it without being patronising.

“Don’t know it,” Otabek said, moving to pick up the mop for the floor. Despite the dourness of his words, his eyes sparkled under the long fluorescent lights as he looked at Yuri.

“Ah, fuck off,” Yuri snorted, just as Mila came out of the toilet.

“I just wiped those tables,” Mila complained as she spotted Yuri sitting on the prep table. She shoved Yuri off it. “You’re just making more work for yourself tomorrow morning.”

Yuri caught himself against the sink and flipped her off. Otabek had stopped cleaning the floor, looking towards Yuri at first, but then fixating on Mila. She had fixed her hair and make-up and changed into a short, sparkly gold dress and massive golden hoops dangling from her ears.

“What do you think?” she asked, making a little turn. “Will this do?”

“Where are you going?” Yuri asked, but Mila was facing Otabek. “Hey!” he added.

“It’s just a little party,” she said over her shoulder. “Promised to help Vitya with something. There’s room for one more, hmm, Otik?”

Anyone would stop to look at a dress like that. Anyone would appreciate Mila’s red hair and long legs. And Otabek was doing just that, looking hard at her. Yuri didn’t like it.

“Helping Vitya?” he said. “That’s trouble.”

“Sometimes a girl needs a little trouble,” Mila said and turned to flash him a smile. “It’s been a while. Offer’s open, Otik.”

The bell on the front door of the shop rang softly and the familiar cadence of Viktor’s smugness if not the actual words was audible. Then he appeared in the kitchen doorway, dressed in newly shined shoes and a designer greatcoat, leather gloves on his hands.

“You look radiant, Milasha,” he said, arms spread open as if to embrace her brilliance. “Just what I need.”

“Just owe me the favour like you promised,” Mila said good-naturedly, and turned to tilt her head at Otabek. “You in?”

Otabek put his chin down, lowering his appreciative gaze. “No,” he said and started mopping the floor again.

“Maybe next time,” she said and collected her coat and bag. She blew a kiss at Yuri. “See you Monday, Yurasik.”

“You’re not coming tomorrow?” Yuri asked. She rarely missed pastry-Saturdays.

“I need a lot of help this weekend,” Viktor said, offering his arm to her. “Maybe in a few years Uncle Kolya will let you come along too, kitten. I know you’d be a great distraction for great many situations, and you count cards like a pro.”

Yuri turned his back to them and glared at the back door instead. He didn’t need that reminder again. All of his hair stood on end with shivers of rage as he listened to Viktor and Mila bid their goodbyes to Uncle Yasha and Grandpa on their way out. He hated all of Viktor’s insinuating and belittling, and he hated being his grandfather’s grandson. It reminded him of how small his life was.

“When’s Cosmonautics Day?” Otabek’s voice broke into Yuri’s consciousness.

“April 12th,” Yuri said. “I’m going home.” He turned on his heel and went to grab his things. Potya was home alone, anyway. And Yuri had nowhere else to go, even in a city the size of Moscow.

“Okay,” Otabek said and kept mopping. Even though it had become more normal for him to walk Yuri to school—and Yuri didn’t mind that so much, it was 40 minutes every day that felt different and kind of free—he didn’t need to walk Yuri _home_.

The backdoor exit was useful for situations like these. Yuri even considered stopping by the bar and ordering “vodka for the uncles” to take home with himself, but he’d been drunk a few times before and it just made him nauseated. Instead he went to the corner store and bought some orange soda before slogging through the ankle-high new snow back home.

There were more men on the streets after the car lights incident, which was probably why nothing had happened since. Some of them greeted him as he passed, easily recognised in the territory even when he pulled the giant fur-lined hood up. His hair would still escape it and his mid-calf boots jingled with zippers and charms. _Hello, Yurik. Goin’ home, Yurik? Evenin’, Yurik._

The accumulated snow and ice made the streets look almost smooth, but they were pitted with potholes underneath. Not a lot of people drove cars around the area, anyway, but there were some parked on the street and in make-shift car parks that were empty or demolished lots, or the inner courtyards of enclosed blocks.

Yuri stopped in front of Grandpa’s building and instead of going up, placed his backpack down and took out his soda, then set up a line of frozen snow blocks on the street. He kicked them one by one, some smashing satisfyingly apart against the concrete and brick walls where he aimed them and some just sliding down the street until their momentum was spent. When that had run its course of amusement, Yuri picked up pieces of ice and threw them up at the streetlights, trying to break the bulbs, screaming when he missed.

No one cared. _No one cared._ Even if people saw him and heard him, no one even came to the window to look. Noise on the street was trouble, even more so for the aged people who lived in the area. They’d lived through the fall of the Soviet Union. That served Yuri well on nights when he did whatever he could to vent. No one cared about him screaming. The void had nothing to say back to him. Nothing ever happened but at the same time everything happened at an increasing pace and all the time. Nothing he did meant _anything_.

One of the streetlights broke under a barrage of ice and stones, and Yuri celebrated the rain of glass and sparks by screaming some more and tearing off his coat. He wanted to catch the embers on his tongue like snowflakes, but shied away when one stung his forehead.

“Fuck you!” he shrieked, picking up more ice to throw around.

The short street was empty so the glowing end of Otabek’s cigarette and his figure silhouetted against the snow were only too obvious as Yuri tore himself away from under the streetlight. The glow gave Otabek’s face a ruddy colour. In his other hand he had a canned drink. Yuri was tired of not being heard.

The snow and ice and glass crunched under his boots as he sprinted at Otabek, a hand he barely kept from shaking reaching out to steal the cigarette from between Otabek’s lips. He took it, grabbed the can with his other hand, drove the cigarette into it.

“Smokers taste like ashtrays!” he howled and yeeted the can into an empty window across the street. He used the same momentum to haul himself around, grab his bag and fumble the lock of the building open to get in. The stairwell thundered with his footsteps as he ran up to the 5th and highest floor, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears as he slammed the door and rushed into his room to throw himself on his bed. He still wasn’t asleep when his grandfather came home hours later.

*

There was no way Yuri had slept, but the alarm still came as a surprise, startling him into bleary consciousness on Saturday morning. Potya was curled up on his desk chair, only raising her head when Yuri sat up, staring at his phone. 6am. He’d checked the time just a minute ago and it’d been 4am.

He got up anyway, staggering to have a wash. There was a tiny red dot on the top of his cheek, left by the spark. He stared at it while brushing his teeth before his shower. He made tea and ate a cold, week-old meat-filled chebureki with it, while Potya cuddled in his lap.

“I’ll come home earlier today,” he promised her, kissing the top of her head. He didn’t want to go to the diner anyway, even if it was Saturday. It looked like it would be _every_ Saturday of his life, and that was an unbearable thought. Viktor was a piece of shit but he’d also taught Yuri to count cards on his 15th birthday. Yuri never had any use for the skill.

Potya walked him to the door after he got dressed and sat in the dark to see him off. He felt guilty. He’d been staying late at the shop for a few weeks. He liked Otabek. He felt even more guilty.

“I promise, Potyusha,” he whispered to her. “I won’t stay late. There’s no point, anyway.” She stared at him with gleaming eyes, not understanding the source of his bitterness.

Even though Yuri’s thoughts already touched on Otabek, he was startled for the first time in a few weeks to find Otabek waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. There were lights in the stairwell, but neither of them ever used them, and what light filtered in through the small, foggy glass panels of the front door was even less after Yuri had broken the light in front of the building last night.

Yuri didn’t want to look at Otabek so he just brushed past him, but as soon as he touched the door, his heart sped up again. “The lock’s broken,” he said, already backing away when Otabek grabbed him by his upper arms and shoved him behind himself.

“Inside,” Otabek said and took Yuri to his apartment, putting him inside it without ceremony. “Stay there until I get back.”

“What? No,” Yuri said. “You’re not going out there!”

“Yeah, I am.” Otabek placed his arm on the doorframe to keep Yuri caged in.

“You know they break the lock-”

“To not give you a place to run to, yeah, I know,” Otabek cut him off. “Stay until I get back,” he repeated, grabbed a tyre iron that was leaning against the wall by the exit, and closed the door in Yuri’s face. A tyre iron when he didn’t even have a car.

The basement flat was either the best place to stay or the worst. The only windows were high up on the wall, on the level of the street. They were narrow, but a thin person could’ve squeezed through if they weren’t covered in bars. Safe if someone wanted to get in, but less so if someone wanted to get out, like in the case of a fire.

Yuri ran from window to window, trying to see what was going on, but could only see a whole lot of grimy snow build-up. His heart was striking against his ribs like a bell tongue against a frantic bell, and he was wondering if he was stupid or brave enough to follow Otabek. The skin of his palms tightened and tingled with the memory of grappling with a knife and he backed away from the windows, nauseated.

Car lights flashed in the windows, creating illuminated rectangles that moved across Yuri’s face. His back hit the wall, and he stood there, shaking as the car stopped right in front of the building, its engine idling. Yuri crouched down even though he knew they couldn’t see him. After a while the car left, but Yuri stayed down, clutching his knees to his chest.

His throat constricted painfully when there was a rattle from the door. He scuttled backwards into a corner, grasping around for something to defend himself with, but the floor was bare and cold. Yuri stopped breathing when he saw the figure in the doorway, alien and dark, hoping he wouldn’t be spotted in the corner.

“Yuri.” The figure became familiar. Otabek’s voice was low, not quite a whisper. “Yuri?”

“I-” Yuri started, but he had no voice. He gasped for breath. “I’m here.”

Otabek walked quietly across the floor and crouched next to him. “You okay?” he asked.

“I’m okay,” Yuri said. Although he hated the acrid smell of tobacco, the mixed scent of cigarettes, leather and something slightly minty that came with Otabek’s presence was a comfort.

Otabek shifted onto his knees and leaned over Yuri, who pressed farther into the corner, only to be caught in an awkward and unexpected hug. Yuri squeezed his eyes shut against the fur of Otabek’s collar and filled his lungs over and over again with air that felt like it was fighting back. Otabek placed his gloved hand over the back of Yuri’s head briefly, then let go.

“Go back up,” he instructed. “I’ll open the shop. Come later.”

“What happened outside?” Yuri asked. Otabek was close enough in the dark that his breath washed over Yuri’s forehead when he spoke.

“Nothing. Scare tactic. But better be safe.” Otabek found one of Yuri’s hands and slowly unfolded Yuri’s fingers to relax the fist. “Come on.”

“I’m not a child,” Yuri said, although he didn’t even know what he was protesting. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to be afraid or reduced to someone other people had to take care of. He didn’t want Otabek to think less of him. He didn’t want to disappear into the smallness.

“Yeah, but you’re the boss’ grandson,” Otabek said. The smooth leather of his gloves was cool against Yuri’s palm. “I’ll take you back up.” He stood up and pulled Yuri along. The windows were dark now, only letting in a faint grey glow that made the cellar apartment marginally less dark.

“I have to start the dough,” Yuri said. What would Otabek have done if there’d been someone out there waiting?

“I can do the dough,” Otabek said.

“You’re shit at dough,” Yuri muttered, but let Otabek take him to the door. He opened it and peered into the corridor, then pulled Yuri out and towards the stairs.

“You’re shit at jabs,” Otabek countered, walking up the stairs behind Yuri. “Still let you do them.”

“Oh, okay,” Yuri grunted. Otabek had taken up teaching him more than boxing. Straight-up self-defence. Yakov had been slightly put off by it, citing rules of the ring. “You _let_ me do them.”

The keyring rattled in Yuri’s hand as he tried to slot the key into the lock. He told himself to stop shaking and held his breath until the key slid in and he got the door open. He heard Potya jump down from his bed and she soon appeared in the doorway of his room, mystified that he was back.

“You shouldn’t go to the shop alone,” Yuri said when Otabek turned to leave.

Otabek tilted his head a little. “It’s okay,” he said. He might’ve even smiled, like he wanted the trouble. He gave a short wave with his hand and went back down the stairs, quiet even in winter boots.

“Yurochka?” Grandpa said from his bedroom. “Is that you?”

Yuri shooed Potya back inside from where she was sniffing the outside and closed the door. “Yeah,” he said, unzipping his coat and dropping it on the floor. “The lock’s broken downstairs.”

Grandpa appeared in his doorway so quickly that Yuri was startled. It was dark in their apartment too, but slightly less so. The icons in the sitting room had electric candles in front of them, always lit. They were dim, but they gave off a hint of light.

“Otabek went ahead-” Yuri started.

“That’s fine,” Grandpa cut him off. “As long as you’re safe.” He patted Yuri’s head gently, then went back into his room to pick up his phone. “Put the kettle on since you’re here. We’ll go in together.”

Yuri picked up his cat and kissed her fat cheek. He flipped on the light and filled the kettle to make some tea, then raided the fridge for some meat jelly for himself and Potya. The top floor of the building was probably the safest place to be. The floors between the first and the 5th were filled with old people who had lived through prisons in the USSR, the fall of the Union, the chaos that followed, and long into the new era. And they were loyal to Nikolai. No one was coming up there that wasn’t supposed to be there.

*

They were followed to the shop by a few men at a respectful distance. Yuri knew their faces. There’d also been an older woman already fixing the lock when they’d left after the morning had become light. She’d seemed like someone he’d seen at Granny Lyusenka’s, fixing the machines. It was a sunny day, and like so many winter mornings and evenings, the sky was in pastel shades of blue and pink.

Nikolai went into the office while Yuri headed into the kitchen to find Otabek whirring around like a spinning top, working every station with a blank face of concentration. “Beka,” Yuri said, which brought everything to a stop.

“Otabek!” Nikolai called from the kitchen. “A word. Yurochka, you see what needs done and do it.”

Otabek brushed past Yuri, nodding at him and quickly squeezing his shoulder. He closed the office door behind himself and left Yuri alone in the kitchen where the mixer with the dough hook was running, sounding like it might give out any second. Yuri went to turn it off, finding it hot around the motor. Otabek had never run it before so he wouldn’t know it overheated. But the dough looked good.

Two skillets full of onions and meat, one pork, one mutton, were steaming on the stove. A third one with only vegetables was to the side. The sweet fillings were nowhere to be seen so Yuri collected the preserves and frozen berries from the walk-in. Without the noise of the mixer he could hear his grandfather’s voice and Otabek’s one-syllable answers, just not the actual words.

“I-” Yuri started when Otabek came out of the office, looking grim. Otabek hadn’t invited him to be more familiar with him, and Yuri hadn’t expected he’d want to after the way they’d met. New faces made him nervous. Even if the face was as nice as Otabek’s. It made him nervous all the same, for a different reason now. And sad, and frustrated.

“Yura,” Otabek said simply and picked up a silicone spatula. He cleaned the sides of the bowl in the mixer, to make sure all the flour was incorporated.

“What’d Grandpa say?” Yuri asked.

“Just asked about this morning,” Otabek replied.

The front door bell rang, followed by Uncle Yasha’s voice. “Kolya? Is Kolya here?”

“I’m here, brother,” Nikolai replied from the office. “Come in.”

Uncle Yasha nodded at Yuri on the way and left behind a tired-looking Georgi. “Any coffee?” Georgi asked, slouching at the counter.

“Help yourself,” Yuri said, gesturing at the coffee makers. Otabek had filled them, but only run one.

“Bad night,” Georgi declared after getting a cup. “Bad news,” he added after having a long sip, nodding towards the closed office door.

There was no reason to go to the cash register because there were no customers, but Yuri did so anyway. Georgi headed into the booth with his coffee and Yuri didn’t care if Otabek saw through his ploy to eavesdrop what his grandfather and Yakov were talking about. He didn’t think it was about the broken lock.

“Is that all?” Grandpa was saying. He sounded tired.

“Not counting the blow to Vitya’s pride and the Foreigner being involved, yes,” Yakov replied. “I’m sorry she got caught in the middle.”

“She knew the risks,” Grandpa said.

Yuri kept opening the cash drawer and closing it. If it had to do with Viktor, then it had to do with Mila.

“She’s resting at the Specialist’s,” Yakov continued.

Resting at the Specialist’s meant almost the same as being in the hospital.

“That’s fine. Thanks for coming in and telling me.” Grandpa’s sigh was heavy.

“Vitya is my responsibility.” Uncle Yasha’s sigh was not any lighter. “He’s been too cocky lately. Thinks he knows everything after running a few schemes. I’m beginning to doubt whether I should’ve given him the run of the downtown businesses. Gosha told me he even tried to fix a match between Yurochka and your new employee. Probably a joke, but-”

The expletive and thud of a fist hitting the desk were common signs of Grandpa’s frustration. “My grandson is off-limits!”

Yuri closed the cash drawer one last time and backed away from the door. He’d never take Viktor’s bait anyway. Why didn’t Grandpa trust him to take care of himself? Yuri grabbed one of last week’s leftover pastries and the pot of coffee and marched over to the booth. He topped off Georgi’s cup and slip the plate with the pastry in front of him.

“What happened?” he asked. Grandpa or Uncle Yasha wouldn’t tell him even if he asked. And Mila was hurt.

Georgi pulled his massive garnet ring off, revealing the tattoo underneath, and rolled the ring in his fingers, mouth drooping. Even his stupid hair quiff was drooping. “Something bad,” he said. “Look, Yurchik, I’m not supposed to-”

“Mila got hurt,” Yuri said, full of blame.

Georgi looked guilty on top of tired. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I found out because Anya was at Aunt Lilia’s when Vitya came in. It was early this morning.” He accepted the pastry and bit into it, not complaining about it being cold and stale. “Heard you had some trouble too.”

“Yeah, whatever. Stairwell lock was broken,” Yuri bypassed the issue. His fear was gone. “Do you know anything else?”

Georgi slotted his ring over each finger in turn until he replaced it over the half-moon tattoo. The office door opened and Georgi looked past Yuri. “No, and I shouldn’t be talking to you anyway.”

“Thanks for nothing,” Yuri muttered and headed back into the kitchen, angrily shoving the coffee pot back into the maker. Why did he need to be left in the dark? Uncle Yasha tipped his hat in greeting to him as he left the office.

“Coming to the gym later, Yurchik?” he said.

“Sure,” Yuri said. Uncle Yasha harrumphed.

“You too, young man,” he added to Otabek, although slightly reluctantly. He didn’t like that Otabek was teaching Yuri to kick and fight dirty in the ring. It ruined the purity of the sport. Yuri didn’t care because he liked that Otabek was teaching him. Knowing how to show-box hadn’t helped him before and almost everyone else refused to really fight him or take him seriously.

“Yes, boss,” Otabek said. Uncle Yasha harrumphed again and headed to the booth to join Georgi. Grandpa came out too.

“Let’s make some chebureki today,” he said, taking off his cardigan and rolling up the sleeves of his undershirt. The faded, awkward tattoos on his fingers and wrists were familiar to Yuri. The finger ring tattoos and dots on the knuckles, the quincunx and eagles on the wrist, the кот and little cat on the other. The cat had been Yuri’s favourite when he’d been young, before he knew what it was.

“Yurochka, help me set up the oil fryer,” Grandpa called as if nothing was wrong.

They dragged out the machine and set it up on a table. “Grandpa, can I to the gym early today?” Yuri asked, pouring in litre after litre of rapeseed oil. He couldn’t ask to go see Mila because he wasn’t supposed to know about it.

“Not today,” he said. “You can go after the pies are ready and you’ve updated the books like always. The receipts are in the desk drawer.”

“But-”

“Mila isn’t here to help today so you both need to stay.”

“Bek- Otabek will stay to help,” Yuri argued. Why would him going automatically mean Otabek was coming too?

“Leave it, Yura,” Nikolai said. “Watch the cherries.”

Yuri stirred the pot of simmering cherries without even looking at it, boiling in his own irritation. He met Otabek’s eyes, remembered throwing his drink into a window the night before, and decided he was better off dead from embarrassment. His face was hot, either from sticking it into the steam of reducing cherries or from the way he’d hugged Otabek that morning, frightened like the kitten Viktor always made him out to be.


	7. Monday, 3rd of February

The weekend consisted of work. Work at the shop, work in the ring, chores at home, and homework from school. Grandpa had Yuri do all the laundry on Sunday, which meant sitting at the laundromat with mostly deaf Granny Lyusenka for hours. At the gym Uncle Yasha kept Yuri from leaving and Aunt Lilia made no appearance at all. Messaging and calling Mila gave no response, and nobody talked about whatever had happened.

Monday morning Yuri trudged into the restaurant and left Otabek to clear the snow at the back door, certain that Mila was never coming back. Yuri picked up the mail from the cold foyer and shuffled through the ads printed on cheap paper only to come across an envelope that had an unfamiliar _Ukrainian_ name on it: Kirian Gavrilovich Kolisnychenko. The envelope was empty. It had no address.

Yuri threw the ads into the bin and crumpled the envelope in his hand, shoving it into his coat pocket to show Grandpa later. An empty envelope, an empty threat. Instead of hiding in the office he headed out back to help Otabek with the snow that had fallen overnight. It wasn’t such a bad chore with company.

By now he had an appreciation on how different boxing and fighting really were. Nobody was going to fight fair outside the ring. And there were the bruises to prove Otabek didn’t take it easy on him. Yuri rubbed his side in memory of being repeatedly hit there the day before. The bruise was massive.

“Do you need-” Yuri shoved the back door open to find Otabek with his arm around Mila. She was leaning into his side, her face hidden into the fur collar of Otabek’s jacket. “Mila!”

She pulled her head up and the ghoulish light painted terrible shadows on her face, until Yuri realised they were bruises too. “Hello, Yurasik,” she replied, tired. She didn’t move away from Otabek, whose eyes were on Yuri.

“They didn’t tell me,” Yuri said immediately, hiding the crack in his voice under concern. Otabek had been stroking her back, but his hand was stopped now. “They didn’t even let me come see you.”

“If they didn’t tell you, how would you know to come visit?” Mila deflected with a wan smile. The left side of her face was mottled with bruises. There were cuts on her lips and across her nose.

“I eavesdropped!” Yuri snapped. “But they didn’t tell me!”

Mila removed herself from Otabek’s embrace and came to hug Yuri instead. “I’m fine. I knew what I was doing.”

Otabek took up the snow shovel and scraped at the snow, looking at Yuri as much as Yuri was staring at him over Mila’s shoulder.

“It’s fucking Vityok’s fault,” Yuri asserted, pulling back to look at Mila’s face. His hands shook. From anger at her being hurt, not from the uncomfortable disappointment at interrupting their intimate moment.

She grinned despite it clearly being painful. “Yeah, but you should see his face. Let’s go in, I’m freezing. You coming too, Otik?”

Otabek gestured at the accumulated snow and shook his head so Mila led Yuri back in, and Yuri pulled out Uncle Sima’s stool for her to sit on by the prep tables while he filled the kettle for tea and started on grinding coffee beans. Their grinder was a hand-cranked one.

“What happened?” Yuri asked after Mila had a cup of tea and one of each of the type of fresh pastry they’d made.

“Got caught,” Mila replied. Her face looked even worse under the overheads of the kitchen. Yuri touched his side again. His bruises were voluntary.

“Fucking Viktor,” Yuri spat again.

“Boss has told him off,” Georgi said. He stood in the little bit of corridor that went from the kitchen to the back door. “Front door was still closed.” Yuri hadn’t heard him come in.

“ _Boss_ should kick him out!” Yuri slammed the pots in the coffee machines. He hadn’t even taken off his coat. Viktor was such a smug fuck and deserved a good kicking.

Georgi just walked past him into the dining side, turning on the lights. “They’re coming in,” he said. He both idolised and envied Viktor, but Viktor was just better at everything, which left Georgi often unnoticed. Yuri had seen it. Yuri had felt it.

Yuri grabbed his backpack. “Then I’m leaving,” he announced. Otabek was at the back door, stomping snow off his boots, and held out an arm.

“Give me a minute,” he said.

“What for?” Yuri scowled. “I know my way to school.”

“I have to-” Otabek started, but Yuri pushed his arm out of the way and ran into the alley.

The snow crunched underfoot. Not like snow that had melted and re-frozen, which had a layer of ice on top, but like fresh, sub-zero snow. It had a distinct squeak to it, and every step was a thud, echoed by the tinkle of the charms on Yuri’s boots. His breath puffed against the collar of his coat, pouring out in long plumes of white against the dark buildings and sky. The cold tingled on his face and in his nose and throat, gluing the insides of his nose together with every inhale, until the exhale warmed up the membranes again. Cold always tasted metallic.

He didn’t turn to look, but he was certain somebody followed him through the lot with the demolished building and the gap in the chain-link fence, all the way to the metro station. If he’d been less angry, less stupid, he would’ve made sure it was somebody friendly. The bruises ached. He was so stupid. He was just a child to everyone.

He missed Mama. She’d always known.

Yuri emptied out the pockets of his coat at the station. The envelope, the used-up tube of chapstick, napkins and tabs from soda cans. All of it trash. He took out his earbuds and put them in, getting his phone out to look at pictures of celebrities while listening to music. He didn’t bother looking around, but it felt like someone was watching.

When the train came and he got in, Otabek stood next to him, but Yuri didn’t acknowledge him, or even look at him. He recognised the jacket and the scent, and the gait. They exchanged no words, nor looks, but Otabek stayed doggedly at Yuri’s heel until he entered the school building. It was well too early for classes so Yuri found a windowsill with a working radiator under it and curled up there with his phone.

Although nothing he saw in the celebrity blogs he skimmed until his classes started cheered him up, the bright pictures stayed on the forefront of his mind. At lunch he ignored the call of his stomach and left the school grounds. It was the only way to avoid being watched or babysat. He didn’t dare turn his phones off, but made sure they were silent. The silence and privacy would only last so long.

Grandpa would tell him he was a thoughtless child, making people worry. But Yuri knew exactly what he was doing, even at the risk of losing even more silence and privacy later. He put his earbuds in and turned the volume up to drown the noise of people around him as he took the metro to central Moscow.

He was like his mother, after all, and buying clothes made him happy. He’d tried to dress like other boys his age so Grandpa wouldn’t have to worry, but Grandpa worried anyway and left him out like a child. It made perfect sense to act like a child then, and dress like a child. Mama had been happy when he’d dressed colourfully, and _he_ was happy when he dressed colourfully.

Yuri picked out a shirt, just a simple t-shirt with black sleeves and the front and back in pink and purple leopard print. He didn’t need to try it on, but went into a fitting room anyway, where he tore off the tag and put the shirt on under his hoodie and coat. Then he browsed cat-eared headphones and sparkly chokers until his heart stopped beating like a guilty idiot. He’d never shoplifted before. It didn’t make him feel any better.

He walked out of the store and ignored the missed calls and message notifications on his phone. He dialled Mila, sitting on a bench by an indoor fountain.

“Yura,” she hissed upon picking up. “Uncle Kolya’s going insane. Where are you?”

“I’m fine,” Yuri said immediately. “Don’t tell them I’m calling.”

“Ugh,” she groaned. “You’re killing me.”

“Sorry.”

He heard some raised voices in the background. “Hey, Uncle Sima, I’m going to have a smoke break, okay?” Mila said. The voices receded and there was the familiar click of Mila’s lighter, then a puff of breath. “Okay,” she said. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to be alone,” Yuri said, looking around the bright and lively mall. “Nothing ever happens anyway. Why can’t I go somewhere alone?”

“I know,” she said, inhaling from her cigarette. “But you’re safe, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighed. He didn’t have anyone else to talk to. He pulled up his hood to shield his eyes from the brightness and looked down at the tips of his boots. “Grandpa doesn’t let me do anything and I’m kinda pissed off at Vitya.”

“You’re always pissed off at Vitya,” Mila reminded him.

“It was different when Mama was alive,” Yuri muttered, hating that he sounded like a child saying that. But it _had_ been different, he’d been allowed to do _some_ things.

“I know,” Mila repeated. “I miss her too. She was like my sister or something.”

Yuri tended to forget he wasn’t the only one missing his mother.

“She used to teach the beginners’ class at Aunt Lilia’s, remember?” Mila exhaled at the other end. “She must’ve taught Vitya too back then. She was so much nicer than Aunt Lilia and Auntie would just tell her ‘don’t coddle the children, Ksana, they need to learn what disappointment is’.” Mila used her best impression of Aunt Lilia, which made Yuri snort wetly.

“Yeah,” he said and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hand against them to keep from crying in a public place. “Mama helped me with homework,” he managed to say.

“Oh, Yurasik,” Mila said. “Do you _need_ help with homework?”

“No.”

“I get it,” she said. “I get lonely too.”

“How? You can go and do what you want.”

“Yeah, but… Everybody’s my family, but no one is, you know what I mean?” She cleared her throat. “My hands are freezing out here. Are you coming back soon? Everyone’s out looking for you.”

“I guess.” Yuri wiped his eyes. Mila, Viktor, and many of the others working for Grandpa or Yakov were orphans. Some by choice, most by situation. It really was as much as their family as anything.

“Hey, Otik,” Mila said at the other end, slightly distant as though she’d lowered her phone. “You need a smoke too?”

Otabek murmured something Yuri couldn’t make out and there were two more clicks of the lighter. Yuri strained his ears to pick up every little sound.

“Loud inside.” Otabek’s voice was closer.

“Well, that’s the Plisetskys for you,” Mila said.

“Does he do this a lot?”

“Who, Yura? Do what?”

“Run away.”

“Not really, but give him a break. He’s been through a lot.”

“He seems so… small,” Otabek said.

Mila laughed, then wheezed in pain. “Ow. That’s our baby, little Yurasik,” she said. Then there was a scuffle and the line went dead.

Yuri stared at his phone. _He seems so small_. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? He was at least a centimetre taller than Otabek.

But he had the curdling feeling that wasn’t what Otabek had tried to convey. The new shirt itched under his clothes and felt tight around his throat too. Was it a wonder he looked small when he’d been shrinking every day to fit inside his small world?

Time meant little inside an indoor mall with no sight of the outside. It was always light. Even the metro was directly below the massive shopping centre, and Yuri only saw the dark sky when the metro breached the surface on his way home. Later than he thought.

Regret hit him full force when he got off the train and shuffled towards home. He hadn’t eaten all day and his head hurt, but he didn’t want to go to the restaurant and create a fuss. Nothing had happened. He should be allowed to go out alone if he wanted. He should be allowed to like the new more-than-a-dishwasher without feeling guilty.

Yuri went home. Potya was there. At the front door of Grandpa’s building stood a man, Dusik. Not quite an uncle, vaguely familiar. Sometimes worked at the little drugstore across the street. He was squatting against the wall and nodded at Yuri as he went by.

“Hey, Yurik. Boss is looking for you,” he said.

Yuri said nothing and went in. Dusik had his phone out when Yuri took a look at him through the gap of the closing door. He left his coat, boots and backpack all over the floor, changed into his new shirt and went to cuddle Potya in bed. He heard a car screech to a stop on the street and flinched. He even heard the steps coming up the stairs, before the door was thrown open.

“Yurochka!” Grandpa roared. Yuri had closed his door too, but it was wrenched open with no regard to his privacy. Potya jumped out of his arms and hid under the bed. “How many lives do you think you have!”

“None,” Yuri said, grabbing his pillow to put over his head and curled up tighter on his bed. “I have no life!”

“ _Theotokos,_ ” Grandpa said, as if he was about to pray. “Sit up and look at me when I talk to you.”

Yuri shoved the pillow away and sat up, dragging his unwilling eyes to his grandfather. Grandpa looked like he was in pain. His face was red. Yuri wanted to shrivel into a pile of ash.

“M’sorry,” he mumbled.

“Not good enough,” Grandpa said. If the wrinkles had been any deeper on his face, they would’ve cut to the bone. “You didn’t answer your phone. You didn’t tell me where you were going. You left school. You don’t leave school! You disrupted everyone’s day. We agreed-”

“You agreed!” Yuri tossed his head back to get the hair out of his eyes. “You agreed I’m not allowed to do anything or go anywhere! You won’t even let me have a _party!_ ”

“Are you acting out because of a _party?_ ” Grandpa was struck with angry disbelief.

“I’m not acting out!” Yuri cried, leaping up. He was as tall as Nikolai, but he still backed down when Nikolai took a step towards him, wide shoulders heaving. “You won’t let me do anything! I had more freedom as a 10-year-old than I do now!”

“I agreed, when my daughter _died_ , that I’d do anything I needed to keep her son safe and alive,” Nikolai growled. “Including grounding him and getting someone to babysit him when he’s almost 18 if he pulls more ridiculous stunts like this!”

“Grounding me?” Yuri laughed and cried. “What are you going to take away from me? There’s nothing left! All I do is go to school, work at your stupid restaurant, and go boxing! I guess it’s boxing since it can’t be school?” The tears were unbidden and demoralising, but they came all the same, flooding across his cheeks. “ _It’s your fault Mama died!_ ”

Nikolai’s face froze, red and stricken. He shook on his feet. “Yes,” he said, voice hard. “Yes, it is. It’s my fault that both Nadsha and Ksanochka are dead. And I won’t add your death to the list!”

“You haven’t even found out who did it!” Yuri continued, fury-wrecked. “You won’t be able to stop me from joining the Brotherhood when I’m 18! I want whoever killed Mama to _die!_ I want to _kill_ whoever did it! I have to do it because you’re too old and _can’t!_ They killed-” He came up short, gasping through tears and a runny nose and too many emotions. Too much to stop spraying these horrible things at his grandfather.

“The Brotherhood is nothing but a series of terrible things,” Nikolai said, face twisted. “Either done _by_ you, or done _to_ you! I have failed at so much, but so help me God if I fail with you. You _will_ fall in line, or I _will_ have someone follow you _everywhere_ , including classes!”

“I’m not one of your _underlings!_ I could just run away! You can’t stop me!” Yuri stormed, caught up in the hurricane. “I can be just like you!”

“And look at where I am!” Nikolai raised his voice. “Look at what I’ve _lost!_ My youth to prison, my love and family to pride and bad decisions! You’ll not go through the same even if it kills me!”

Yuri pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, staggering backwards, trying to stop the tears and the hiccups. “Grandpa...”

“You’re to stay at home for the rest of the week when you’re not at school. No work. No gym. No phone after school. I’ll personally walk you to school and pick you up. No discussion.” Nikolai didn’t slam the door in his wake. The sound of the TV started soon after, masking Yuri’s strangled, furious sobs and the muffled anger of throwing his pillow at the walls until he was spent.


	8. Tuesday–Friday, 4–7th of February

Yuri resigned himself to the unfairness of his situation in mute but defiant acceptance for the rest of the week. He had the brief window of school hours to stay on top of events at the shop, and begged Mila to snapchat him everything. He got to see the fading bruises on Viktor’s face as well and was grimly satisfied. After school Grandpa took his phone away, which meant his laptop was useless too, because he couldn’t use his phone for a wi-fi hotspot.

“What if something happens while I’m home alone?” Yuri protested the first time.

“Then use the landline,” Grandpa grunted.

“Those still exist?” Yuri muttered, but Grandpa wasn’t amused. Yuri wasn’t either. “What am I supposed to do at home all evening?”

“Study,” Grandpa replied matter-of-factly. “And if that doesn’t satisfy you, try tidying up after yourself!”

Grandpa didn’t slam doors the way Yuri did, but him closing the front door of the apartment still had a disturbingly final ring to it. Yuri threw himself on the sofa under the candle-lit icons and turned on the TV, determined not to do anything at all. Potya appreciated the warm spot to nap next to him, and Yuri appreciated her. The only good thing about being grounded.

The dishes piled up all week, but Yuri refused to do them. He refused to pick up his coat and boots off the floor, and he refused to face his grandfather in the evenings. He listened to Grandpa grunt in anger at Yuri’s boots and throw them at the wall several nights a row. He barely spoke when Grandpa walked him to school and back, but Grandpa was just as stubborn, and the walks were taken in a both physically and emotionally frozen landscape.

The week left Yuri with nothing much to do except reading ahead on his school assignments, being bitter, and playing with Potya. He often took her to play in the stairwell, just to get a change of scenery. A few times Yuri tried heading downstairs, but was met with Old Dmitrievich on the second floor, sitting on his three-legged stool and filling crossword puzzles.

“Headin’ out, Yurik?” he’d asked, chewing on the end of his pencil with his last two teeth. He always smelled like the bottom of an old vodka bottle.

“No,” Yuri had said, and the first time he’d gone back upstairs. The second time he didn’t look at the old man and continued down.

“Wouldn’t do that if I was you!” Old Dmitrievich had called after him.

“Well, well, well, look who’s here,” Yuri was greeted on the first floor landing by Granny Irinka. She’d owned the bar next to Grandpa’s shop and was formidable in size. The neat scarf she wore around her head and face didn’t make her quaint at all, just scary. “Little Yurushka comin’ to visit an old lady.”

Yuri had turned immediately to go back up, and was met with the old man cackling.

“Told you!” he wheezed. Yuri ran the rest of the stairs up.

When he couldn’t avoid it anymore, he picked Potya up and took her with him into the apartment next door. She squirmed in his arms as he stood in the doorway without turning on any lights, breathing in the scent of dust and Mama’s perfumed moisturiser.

“It’s home, Potyusha,” he told Potya, but she wasn’t in the mood and wriggled out of his grasp. Yuri turned on the hall light and watched dust fly in the air that’d been long undisturbed. His mother’s shoes still lined the foyer. The tea cup Mama had used that morning was still on the kitchen counter. Yuri walked through the apartment, looking into his own old room. He still hid things there; he knew Grandpa never visited. But he went into Mama’s room instead, touching all the bottles and cases of make-up on her vanity.

“Well, I’m grounded,” he told the dust-filled air and the mirror. “Do you think he’s right, Mama? I think he’s a pig-headed old fool. People call him boss but I don’t think he’s even good at being a criminal. All he does is launder a little bit of money.”

Yuri sniffed, not really feeling better.

“I said some bad things to him,” he admitted to the apartment at large. “But I don’t think I did anything wrong.” He sat on his mother’s bed and sent a cloud of stifling dust into the air. It’d never been stripped of its sheets. “Mama, I’m sorry… He trailed off, swallowing. “Sorry I wasn’t stronger. Or better. I should’ve been able to protect you.”

He sat there a little longer, but only succeeded in feeling alone and not at all comforted. A thud from the apartment next door sent him out.

“Yura!” Grandpa yelled. He didn’t sound angry, just afraid.

“I’m here,” Yuri said, going back out. Grandpa was standing in the doorway of his apartment. “I was just next door.”

Grandpa looked like he might yell some more, but then only pressed his lips together tightly. “I brought you shashlik from the shop,” he said shortly and turned to go back in. “Sima made too much.”

“Okay,” Yuri said. It was the sum of their conversations for the evening.

*

Friday was the worst day because normally it was one of the best days. Yuri had been considering leaving at night, maybe just to visit Otabek downstairs, but he knew someone was going to be watching him all the time, even at night. Mila’s updates had died down during the week to a few token ones a day before Grandpa confiscated his phone on the way back from school.

He had finished his homework and was flipping through channels on the telly when there was a knock on the door. At first he froze, but then told himself no one who shouldn’t be there wouldn’t get up the stairs. The tenants may have been old, but they were unscrupulous and loyal to Grandpa.

Potya was as curious as he was and was already waiting by the door. There was an envelope on the floor as though someone had slipped it in under the door. Yuri picked it up while Potya wound herself around his ankles. He cracked the door open, then flung it wide. “What’re you doing here?” he said in surprise to Otabek.

“Boss said to bring you food,” Otabek said, holding up a carrier bag in his gloved hand. “He’s staying in late.”

Grandpa had brought him something each evening. Otabek hung the bag on Yuri’s hand while Yuri was caught up in staring. “Did- did you eat?” Yuri asked, hopeful of keeping Otabek there for a little while.

“Yeah,” Otabek said.

“Eat again,” Yuri said, stepping back so Otabek could come in. He wasn’t giving up this opportunity.

“Food’s for you.” Otabek came in anyway, closing the door behind himself. “But okay.”

Yuri backed towards the kitchen. It felt like he hadn’t seen Otabek in months, which was a little ridiculous. He hadn’t even known Otabek that long.

“Like your shirt,” Otabek said, unzipping his jacket.

“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.” Yuri had worn the same pink and purple leopard shirt every day since getting it. He was determined the shirt would be worth the punishment.

He placed the carrier bag on the kitchen table and remembered the envelope in his other hand. It had the same wrong name, no address, and contained nothing. Yuri crumpled it up and threw it on the table, swallowing against a bitter tide of apprehension. The bag had two cans of his favourite orange sofa on top of the food container.

“Grandpa didn’t send these!” he exclaimed, pulling them out. They were still cold.

“My treat,” Otabek said from behind him.

Yuri whirled around, holding one can in each hand. “Thanks,” he said again, a little bit breathless in surprise that Otabek would’ve remembered or realised he liked the sugary drink.

Otabek nodded and moved around the kitchen and leaned against the counter while Yuri brought out the styrofoam container of beef Stroganov from the carrier bag. When Yuri went to grab a fork, he spotted the bandage around one of Otabek’s fingers.

“What happened to your hand?” he asked.

Otabek glanced at the wrapped finger. “Cut myself,” he said.

“How?” Yuri sat. He’d seen Otabek’s knife skills. It didn’t seem like he could ever cut himself.

“Shaky hands.” Otabek shrugged.

“Why?” Yuri prompted, fork raised but not diving in. Potya jumped onto the chair next to him and put her front paws on the table, sniffing at the food.

“Trying to quit smoking,” Otabek said. “Withdrawals.”

Yuri fumbled with his fork, dropped it on the table, then almost dropped it again trying to pick it up. “You’re quitting?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah. Working with Mila makes it hard,” Otabek mused. He crossed his arms, hands placed under his biceps in a way that pushed them out. “But you made a pretty convincing argument.”

“Yeah,” Yuri agreed in a croak, almost failing to bring his first forkful to his mouth as Potya pushed against his arm. A convincing argument over an entirely subjective matter, but it made Yuri’s heart warm—if not soft—that Otabek had taken him seriously.

“Boss didn’t say much about you,” Otabek offered while Yuri chewed. “Mila said you were grounded?”

“Oh yeah, I’m fucking grounded,” Yuri affirmed, the unfairness of which took away from the warmth. He shoved the styrofoam container away from himself and picked up one of the cans of soda instead. Potya shied away from the hiss and pop of it being opened.

“I didn’t know where to look for you when you disappeared,” Otabek continued, still off-handed. He wasn’t looking at Yuri now, but towards the window that was already dark. Just some city lights in the distance.

“That was the whole point,” Yuri sniffed. “And I didn’t _disappear._ I just went shopping.”

“Would’ve come with you,” Otabek said.

“Are we friends?” Yuri muttered, slouching forwards over the table, turning the can in the little ring of moisture on the table that had already condensed down the can’s sides.

“Hope so.” Otabek pulled out the chair opposite Yuri and sat down. He took the can from Yuri’s hand and had a sip. Yuri’s chest rang with a quickening heartbeat that pulsed warmth back into his body.

“Beka,” he said, tasting the name. Otabek made no protest to it. “Look at this.” Yuri pulled the crumpled-up envelope closer and flattened it against the table.

Otabek took the envelope and read the name, looked inside it, then put it back down. “Don’t know the name.”

“Me either.” Yuri took the can of soda back and lingered the cold rim against his lips. “It’s not that anyway. It’s how it got here,” he added, putting the can back down without drinking. “Someone put it under the door, but who gets in here to do that?” The post that did get delivered was placed in a mailbox downstairs.

“People who break or pick locks,” Otabek said. He got up again, pacing the length of the small kitchen with a frown. “When did it come?”

“Today. I found it when I came to open the door for you. And,” Yuri sighed. “And this is the second one. The first one was at the shop on Monday. But that was... I didn’t say anything because it seemed like an empty threat. And it wasn’t for me, you know? Or anyone I know.” There was nothing to say after having seen Mila that morning. Just an envelope with an unfamiliar name on it when her bruises couldn’t be hidden with make-up?

“Boss doesn’t know?” Otabek stopped to give Potya a pet when she sat up on her chair and meowed at him.

“No,” Yuri admitted.

“Want me to tell him?”

“No!” Yuri took the can again, biting at the rim which tasted faintly of orange and a lot like metal. “No, I don’t want him to worry more.”

“You don’t think he has reason to?” Otabek leaned over the back of Potya’s chair, the one next to Yuri.

Yuri tilted the can just enough to get a hit of sugary orange essence over the taste of metal, staring at Otabek’s lowered profile. He was looking down at Potya, so serious and so focused. So close Yuri could see the scatter of shaved hair along his cheek and the impossible curl of his eyelashes. Yuri’s teeth rattled against the rim of the can when Otabek shifted and looked at him instead of Potya. Mila had it so easy. Being good-looking and nice and _female._ If Yuri wore a sparkly gold outfit he’d be looked at too, but for a very different reason.

“You coming in tomorrow?” Otabek asked instead when Yuri refused to answer his previous question. Mostly out of already forgetting what it was.

Yuri shrugged, had a sip, put the can down. “Dunno. Up to Grandpa.”

Otabek stood up. “I’ll do the dishes.”

Yuri felt guilty. “You don’t have to.”

“Don’t mind,” was Otabek’s simple answer. He rolled up his sleeves and started moving around the dishes to be able to fill the sink. “Gives me an excuse to stay.”

Yuri felt guilty _and_ elated.

“Think I know why you don’t like it,” Otabek continued. “What happened to your hands?”

Yuri felt guilty and elated and _terrified._ He picked up the envelope and shredded it, as if it could erase the facts. As if he didn’t become a whimpering idiot when faced with things he feared. “Knife,” he said shortly. “Haven’t washed dishes since.” At first because of the stitches, and then because it wasn’t easy to grab things for a while. Then just because he hated it anyway.

“Suppose the knife that hurt you wasn’t in the washing?” Otabek pulled on the rubber gloves that rested behind the tap. He had a cut too. Yuri felt more guilty.

“Wish it’d been.” Yuri’s palms tingled and he wrapped both his hands around the can, trying to numb the physical memories with the remaining cold. “Mama- My mom was killed, did you know? Last summer,” he said, concentrating on what was present. Potya licking herself, the smell of the food and the dishwashing liquid Otabek had poured into the sink, the sound of the water coming down the tap. Otabek’s low hum of assertion. Mila had probably told him. How much did they talk and share?

“She was stabbed on the street.” Yuri looked down at the soda can, rolling it between his hands. “I was with her. But I didn’t even- I forgot everything about boxing when it happened so I just grabbed the- the blade of the knife. I was too late anyway,” he finished flatly and had a sip of the soda.

Otabek was resting one hand in the foamy water of the sink, the other occupied with the brush. When Yuri stopped talking, he picked up the stack of plates and sunk them into the water. “Sorry,” he said.

Whether or not it was genuine didn’t matter. It _felt_ genuine. It felt awful. “Yeah. Okay,” Yuri said quickly to not stammer over the words. He’d never had to really tell anyone what had happened because everyone knew, and he still couldn’t bring together the details of the event. All he remembered was car lights and blood, and struggling with a man twice his size, holding the wrong end of a knife.

The dishes clinked under Otabek’s hands as he washed the first set mechanically. Yuri watched the muscles move in his back, visible through the dark grey of his shirt.

“Weird at the shop without you,” Otabek told the sink.

“I’m not there most days,” Yuri pointed out, moving his food around with the fork.

“Already got used to walking you everywhere,” Otabek continued.

Yuri speared a cube of meat and let Potya sniff it, then ate it. _I’m not a child_ , he thought, but said, “Yeah. You know, you probably don’t even have to do it. I mean, it’s not really in your job description.”

“Gets me out of the kitchen.”

Yuri exhaled a short, desperate laugh. “You’re in a kitchen right now, Beka.”

“Yeah, but with _you._ ” Otabek glanced over his shoulder, catching Yuri staring, and Yuri’s heart sped up. Was it fear? Yuri’s heart only beat like that when he was afraid, not when Otabek looked at him. Not when Otabek said he liked being with him.

The fork fell again, clanging against the edge of the table and then hit the floor. It was harder to hold on to things, that’s what Yuri told himself. That’s why he didn’t do the dishes. He didn’t trust his hands would grip slippery things properly and he didn’t want to drop breakables.

Potya jumped off the chair and went to investigate the fork, batting at it with a paw. Yuri dropped his gaze with an uncomfortable heat in his chest and cheeks. Then he got up, grabbed the fork off the floor and put it into the sink full of water. He took a new one from the cutlery drawer and sat back down.

“You okay?” Otabek asked.

 _No_ , Yuri thought. “Hands,” he croaked.

Otabek seemed to accept that explanation and went back to the dishes.


	9. Friday–Saturday, 7–8th of February

Whether it was Nikolai’s intention to have Otabek stay with Yuri or not didn’t matter because it was what happened, and it made Yuri feel a little less like he was alone against the world. Otabek had already gone down when Nikolai came back, and Yuri could tell immediately he wasn’t in a good mood.

“Have you been productive, Yurochka?” Nikolai asked.

Yuri felt dirty taking credit for Otabek’s work, but he did it anyway. “Did the dishes.”

Nikolai looked both suspicious and surprised, but grunted in acceptance when he saw the spotless kitchen. Almost all of which was Otabek’s handiwork. Yuri wasn’t proud.

“Good,” Nikolai said. He walked in a shuffle, slightly bent, and made a deep noise of discomfort under his breath as he sat on the sofa. “I can only hope you’ll make a habit of cleaning after yourself soon.”

It wasn’t likely and they both knew it. “Grandpa.” Yuri worried when he saw his grandfather like this. He looked so old and beaten, and Yuri’s anger didn’t hold fast. “Do you need something? Like painkillers or a backrub?”

Nikolai hesitated. “Help me lie down,” he said and held out his arm. Yuri took it and supported him to lean back, then picked up one foot at a time and lifted it onto the sofa as well.

“Are you gonna be able to get up?” Yuri hovered. “Why’d you need to stay so long? You know you need to take breaks. Your back’s cramping, isn’t it?”

“Yurochka,” Grandpa said, eyes closed but tense all over.

“I’m right!” Yuri snapped and turned on his heel to fetch water and painkillers from the kitchen. He also flipped the kettle on. “Did you at least eat?” he asked when he got back. “Grandpa. Take the pills.”

“I’m fine,” Nikolai insisted as Yuri attempted to make him take the glass of water.

“You’re worse than Potyusha!” Yuri dropped onto his knees by the sofa. “I had to pry her mouth open when she needed to take pills and I will do the same to you!”

Grandpa muttered unflattering words under his breath, but took the pills and finished the water. “Now stop bothering me.”

“Did you eat?” Yuri harangued. He leaned close and sniffed at Nikolai. “I can smell vodka on your beard, Grandpa.”

“A little vodka is business.” Grandpa was defensive, hiking his arms up and crossing them.

“You own a fucking restaurant but don’t even eat,” Yuri muttered and got up. He grabbed a pillow and helped Nikolai sit up so he could stuff the pillow behind him. He also got the crocheted quilt his grandmother had made and spread it over Nikolai.

“Don’t sass me,” Grandpa muttered, closing his eyes again.

Yuri made an angry cup of tea and a hasty cheese, pickle and meat jelly sandwich. He brought the cup and the plate to the sitting room and left them on the scuffed coffee table. “Can I come in and help tomorrow? You can’t stand all day making pies.”

“You’re still grounded,” Grandpa said. “You’re staying here.”

“I have nothing to do here!” Yuri protested, anger bubbling up from the well of worry. “You’re such a stubborn old goat!”

“Reflect on your mistake!” Grandpa raised his voice. “It’s a punishment and _you do your time!_ ”

“I don’t have to go to prison because this is one!” Yuri cried and ran into his room, slamming the door. He knew he’d have to open it for Potya to come and go, but it was the principle of the thing. He’d gone fucking _shopping_ as far as Grandpa knew! Not joyriding, or getting drunk and drugged out, but Grandpa treated like it was some major felony.

*

On Saturday it was Mila who came by with food and the usual pile of pastries Yuri brought home on Saturdays. Yuri’s stomach dropped when he opened the door to find her there, both because he’d hoped it would be Otabek again and then because Mila had been his friend for years and deserved better.

“So this is what being grounded looks like,” she said, taking in the outfit he had on.

“Oh.” Yuri let her in. He was wearing an old t-shirt that was tight in the shoulders now and a pair of gym shorts. “I was cleaning stuff,” he said. “Was I gonna wear something nice to do that?”

It was almost 7pm and Yuri was _bored_. He was so bored he’d taken his grandfather’s suggestion to tidy up. All the reflecting on his mistakes was made at 2am in the morning when he couldn’t sleep from frustration and unfairness.

“Cleaning?” She laughed, shoving the bags and baskets in her arms at him.

“I literally have nothing else to do,” Yuri muttered, carrying the things into the kitchen. “How’s the shop? How’re you?”

Mila ran her finger along the kitchen counters then inspected it. “Sounds like you have separation anxiety, Yurasik.” Her bruises had faded a lot since Monday and probably wouldn’t be visible now if she wore a full face of make-up.

Yuri had found an extra bag in with his meal of the day and opened it to reveal the gold dress Mila had worn. “What’s this? Are you trying to hoist your laundry on me?”

“No, no,” she said. “I’m giving it to you.”

“It’s a dress,” Yuri said flatly, dropping it. The fabric was nice. He wished he could wear something that sparkly.

“You just looked at me so funnily when I wore it. And you’re as queer as a coat hanger,” Mila said, standing next to him.

“Coat hangers aren’t queer,” Yuri protested on behalf of coat hangers and himself but without much vigour.

“They’re question marks with extra baggage!” Mila laughed, then softened into something else. She touched the sequins of the dress. “And honestly,” she added quietly. “I don’t really want to wear it again.”

Yuri wanted to protest that it’d been Otabek who’d given Mila a good, hard look when she wore that dress. Then he thought of Otabek washing the dishes, telling him he liked being there because Yuri was there.

“What happened last weekend?” he asked instead, keeping everything Otabek-related quiet. Mila had only sent him cat memes and gossip all week when he’d been at school and had his phone.

“I wanted to earn some extra,” Mila said, starting to unpack the pastries. “And it was nothing we hadn’t done before. Pretend I don’t know Vitya, attach myself to some high roller at the table, let Vitya know his cards. The usual. We just got caught this time and the man was not a gracious victim at all.”

“Why can’t Vitya just fucking leave you out of it?” Yuri muttered, bunching up the carrier bags in his hands into a little ball. “He doesn’t even need the money!”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Mila said, shaking her head. Her hair was pinned back, but a curl had slipped free and bounced at her temple. The fading bruise at the corner of her mouth made her look like she’d eaten a berry preserve and not wiped her mouth. “Just give it up and tell me why you’re grounded.”

Yuri took a look into the styrofoam container, but decided he’d rather have the fresh piroshki. He flipped on the kettle for tea and got both of them cups. “I went shopping.”

“All right, now give me the real reason,” she prompted.

“I went alone and didn’t tell anyone,” Yuri elaborated. “And Grandpa thinks it’s better to lock me up than trust that I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, I think it’s kinda funny the new kitchen help has to walk you to school every day,” Mila commented and sat down, folding the dress back into its bag and setting it aside. “Was that what you set you off?”

“No. Yeah. Part of it,” Yuri said, words seizing on his tongue. How was he going to admit he liked having Otabek take him to school? It didn’t feel like he was being babysat, not after the first time. Otabek was on his side. Liked being around him.

The kettle clicked off and startled Yuri. He almost shoved the cups off the counter with his elbow as he turned to grab the kettle.

“Anyway,” Mila drawled. “It’s such a downer he decided to quit smoking all of a sudden. He’s not the most talkative but it was nice having company.”

Yuri poured the water over the teabags and left them to steep. Mila was leaning her unbruised cheek against her fist, looking across the table at the dark window that only reflected the lit up inside of the kitchen.

“Yura, you could’ve asked me to come shopping with you,” she said. “Or was the point to go alone to prove you could?”

“Yeah,” Yuri grunted. He poured milk into the two teas, knowing by now how Mila liked hers. “It was so stupid,” he continued. “I know it was even while I was doing it. I knew I’d get punished.” He stared at the swirls of darker tea coming up through the milk.

“Uncle Kolya’s really been on edge the last week,” Mila mused. “He swipes and growls at everyone, like a crouchy old tiger. He even had words with Uncle Sima and you know how hard it is to make Sima say anything.” She stopped him from moving away by taking his wrist when he gave her the cup of tea. “Yurochka. There’s one thing old tigers love more than anything.”

“What’s that?” Yuri muttered.

“Their baby tigers,” Mila replied with a smile.

Yuri snorted, and it turned into a grudging laugh. “He’s so stubborn,” he said and sat, digging out one of the piroshki, making sure to get one of the savoury ones.

“Oh no, stubborn? No family resemblance there, I’m sure,” Mila huffed, picking one of the sweet ones instead. “So what’d you buy when you went shopping? Don’t tell me you did all that and got nothing.”

“I got a shirt,” Yuri mumbled through his mouthful of pastry. “I’ll show you.”

“I think we should go shopping for your birthday,” Mila said. “Otabek lives just downstairs, doesn’t he?”

“Mm, what?” Yuri wiped his mouth on his hand, trying to keep up. “We can go shopping.” It would be nice, actually. “Yeah, in the cellar apartment. Why?”

“I might go visit on my way out.” Mila shrugged. “See if I can get him to come out for a smoke if he’s around. Talk him out of quitting.” She tapped at the tabletop with her fingers. “Tea and pastries always make me crave.”

“He’s probably at the gym,” Yuri said, swirling his tea around. He would be too, if he wasn’t grounded. He’d be there with Otabek, probably getting pummelled by elbows and knees, but he wouldn’t be bored. They would walk back home together and Yuri would get an orange soda.

Mila tried to put the loose curl behind her ear, leaning across the table towards Yuri. “Oh yeah, you haven’t heard,” she breathed. “It was hilarious.”

“What?” Yuri said with his mouth full. “What happened?”

“I guess Otabek’s pretty tense now that he’s trying to quit,” Mila began. “Vitya was in today.”

“That’d set anyone’s teeth on edge,” Yuri muttered.

“Well, Otabek punched him in the stomach.”

Yuri didn’t know if he should spit out the pastry or swallow it. He chose the latter and ended up coughing. “ _What?_ ” he squawked. “Tell me you took a picture!”

“No, um…” Mila dug out her phone anyway. “That’s not all. Vitya didn’t take it too well-”

“Bet he deserved it.” Yuri wiped his mouth, craning his neck to see the screen of Mila’s phone.

“I’m sure, but an hour later I went out for a smoke and four guys were beating the shit out of Otabek in the alley. Vitya was just standing there, you know.” Mila made a face approximating Viktor’s beatific smile. “I did record that.”

“What the fuck?” Yuri exclaimed. “You didn’t help Beka or anything?”

“Oh, I yelled for Uncle Kolya to come see. Here.” She pressed play and the distorted sounds of fists hitting flesh filled the kitchen. The picture was so dark that Yuri had to lean in very close to make anything out, but even then it was just a blur of people and grunts of pain and effort.

 _“Enough!”_ Grandpa yelled in the recording, appearing into the picture.

 _“Vitya,”_ Uncle Yasha’s voice followed, strained. _“Explain_.”

 _“He started it,”_ Viktor said from the side, all innocence. _“Milasha, are you recording this?”_

 _“No,”_ Mila lied and the screen went black.

“See?” the real Mila said to Yuri.

“He’s such a fucking asshole,” Yuri grunted. “How- Was Beka-”

“Bruised, yeah.” Mila nodded. “But alive. And honestly? He was doing pretty well against four. I think they were more bruised than he was.”

Yuri shoved more piroshki into his mouth in anger, mostly to keep the shaking of his hands from showing. He’d have loved to see Otabek beat up people, even men who he probably knew from Yakov’s organisation. And he’d have loved to see Otabek punch Viktor. Even the imagined version of it was highly satisfying.

“But you know,” Mila continued. “That made me think. Maybe I should start coming to the gym too. I’d much rather be the one who punches than be used as a punching bag again.”

“Yeah!” Yuri spewed bits of pastry on to the table from his mouth with the force of his interjection. He swallowed again and gulped a hasty mouthful of tea to wash it all down. “You should. Beka’s a great teacher.” Even if it meant Otabek would pay less attention to him, he couldn’t fault Mila’s reasoning, or her desire to learn to defend herself.

“Thanks, Yurochka.” She smiled and patted his hand. “But I think I’ll ask Gosha or someone to teach me the basics.”

“Okay, if you wanna die of boredom while he grandstands and lectures,” Yuri huffed, having been on the receiving end of that too many times. “Hey, why don’t you give the dress to Anya? It’d blow Gosha’s head clean off seeing her in something like that.”

Mila laughed, then held her cheek. “Can you imagine? But I don’t think she’d ever wear something like that.”

“But I will?” Yuri snorted in disbelief. Even if he wanted to, and he might want to try it on, he’d never be able to wear it in public.

“We can make it into a little top for you,” Mila offered. “It’s that or I’m just going to dump the whole thing.”

“I’ll keep it,” Yuri said quickly. Not to wear but to look at. “I mean, you might want it back someday.”

“It’s not that great of a dress,” Mila said. She’d nibbled on a pastry, but finished her tea and leaned back in her chair. “I’ll be off now, let you finish ‘tidying up’,” she gave the word air-quotes as if Yuri had been doing something else than actually cleaning.

They got up together and Yuri walked her to the door. “Do you know something about Uncle Yasha or Grandpa having businesses downtown?” he asked while she put on her short down jacket that was more style over substance than practical.

“Why do you ask?” she asked, which meant that she did know something.

“Overheard it.” Yuri shrugged, leaning his hand against the wall and scratching at the old embossed wallpaper.

“I know there’s a club,” Mila said. “That’s where Vitya’s at most times. Especially now with the Foreigner.”

“Uncle Yasha owns a _club?_ ” Yuri couldn’t imagine it.

“Yeah,” Mila added. “You really didn’t know?”

“No,” Yuri muttered. He was literally the last one to know or be told anything.

Mila gave him a little smile and a quick hug. “Miss you at the shop, Yurochka,” she said into his shoulder. “Send me a pic if you do try the dress on. Gold’s your colour.”

“I’m not going to try it on,” Yuri protested. And if he was, he wouldn’t _take a picture._ No evidence. “Send me a copy of that video,” he added in a hurry as Mila was turning away.

“You got it.”


	10. Sunday, 9th of February ONE

Yuri was in already in bed when Nikolai came home that Saturday night. Yuri had spent the rest of the evening dusting the sitting room and its icons, candles, and cabinets with his grandmother’s collection of crystal animals with a fury borne of incredibly frustrated imaginings starring Otabek. He’d stowed the dress away in the apartment next door, in the back of his wardrobe there. He hadn’t gone into what had been his mother’s room, or stayed very long this time because of the ghost of her perfume.

After showering and having some more piroshki, Yuri went to bed. He wasn’t asleep when he heard the front door and his grandfather’s tired steps. He didn’t get up, not wanting another battle of wills. Potya padded out through the cracked open door and Nikolai murmured something to her, too low for Yuri to hear.

On Sunday morning he was up before Nikolai and made the tea and warmed up some pastries after getting dressed for church. He pulverised some tablets and mixed the resulting powder into Nikolai’s tea. There was no point in fighting about it. Grandpa would be sore from the days before and he’d still insist on standing through the whole service.

There was little conversation between them that morning, but Grandpa did tousle Yuri’s hair gently as they headed out. “Wear a hat,” he murmured and Yuri did as he was told.

It was a cold morning. Bright and absolutely frigid, which made starting the car a chore. Yuri scraped the windows free of frost while Grandpa warmed up the engine. Yuri knew Grandpa could afford a new car, but it never seemed to occur to him to actually get one. During the car ride Yuri kept applying chapstick to his lips and playing with the tube, not taking in the sights on the familiar route.

He barely listened to the liturgy and missed a few signs of the cross and kneels, causing Grandpa to tug on his sleeve. He didn’t miss the way Grandpa limped when they walked out of the church, the smell of incense lingering on their clothes, and put himself under his grandfather’s arm to act as a crutch.

Yuri woke up to the change in their normal return trip after the first out-of-the-ordinary turn his grandfather took. He sat up and squinted at the scenery. “Grandpa,” he said.

“We haven’t visited your mother and grandmother for a while,” Grandpa said.

They hadn’t been to the cemetery since Christmas. Yuri felt guilty, and then angry because her mother lay dead in a cold grave that carried none of her essence. Her spirit was in the scent and mood of the apartment Yuri couldn’t bring himself to live in anymore. All the trinkets on her dressing table in her bedroom, the clothes neatly in her wardrobe. The lace curtains that had made all the light in her room hazy.

Yuri’s heart hurt.

The inside of his eyelids blazed red from the brightness of the day as they walked from the car park into the little flower shop that operated just outside the cemetery. He wanted to get blue flowers because it’d been his mother’s favourite colour, but there weren’t any. He got pink, fluffy ones, and a candle. Grandpa bought a fresh winter wreath.

Nadezhda and Kseniya Plisetskaya were buried under the same marker. Paths had been trod into the snow all over between the graves, but the snow was still white. It glimmered like sugar under the sun, coating the features of the land in stillness and cold.

Yuri felt still and cold too when he had to read the names on the gravestone again. He knelt in the snow, ignoring the seeping damp that came through his jeans and made his muscles lock up. He placed the wreath down and the candle in the middle of it, then the flowers.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” he whispered. “Grandmama.”

Nikolai put his hand on Yuri’s shoulder and squeezed, reciting the Jesus Prayer over and over again under his breath. _Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner._

Yuri didn’t pray. He wiped tears from his cheeks before they could freeze, aching for everything he’d lost and for everything he couldn’t have. When he stood up, he was shaking from cold and his nose ran. Grandpa handed him a crumpled napkin, wiped away some of Yuri’s tears with his woollen gloves and then hugged him, stroking his back.

“I miss them too,” the old man said gruffly. He didn’t weep, but his eyes were blurry and dim and red-rimmed when Yuri pulled back. “Do you understand why I grounded you?”

“Yeah,” Yuri said. He just felt so tired. His legs shook and shivers of cold made his teeth chatter. Grandpa made a noise of concern upon seeing that. “I’m sorry, Grandpa,” Yuri added quietly, voice cracking.

“All right, Yurochka, dry your face,” Grandpa said, taking his arm. “Let’s get back. You’re no longer grounded, but I hope you’ll eat Sunday lunch with me before you go.”

“‘Course I will,” Yuri sniffled. He’d thought, all along the long week, that once his punishment was over, he’d leave and go do all the things he’d wanted to do, but now all he wanted was to stay with his grandfather and cook their Sunday meal. It was tradition. It was important. It was remembering a mother and a grandmother who’d been there to take part in the tradition before.

In the end there would just be Yuri, alone with his cat, to carry on the tradition. So he’d rather spend the time with his grandfather now than regret it later. He held his hands to the air vent in the car when it began to blow warm and closed his eyes against the sunlight, more tired now than ever before, the smallest he’d ever been.

*

After lunch, surfeited on Grandpa’s solyanka and a more cheerful atmosphere, Yuri packed his gym bag and headed downstairs. He was too full to go straight into exercise, but walking to the gym and hopefully having Otabek’s company would make him feel even better. He dropped into the cellar level and knocked on Otabek’s door.

He ended up knocking three times before there was a scuffle from behind the door and an extremely dishevelled and shirtless Otabek opened it. Yuri hadn’t turned on the lights in the stairwell and the tiny windows of the cellar apartment were now covered, but he could still see the dark splotch on the side of Otabek’s face that wasn’t normal.

“What the fuck?” Yuri was incredulous for a split-second, then recalled Mila’s recording. “I heard what Vitya did to you. That fuckface!”

“Thanks,” Otabek said seriously. His voice was gravelly. “Come in.”

Yuri sidled in, squeezing his bag against his chest. The air was stale in Otabek’s apartment, and Yuri’s brain had finally caught on to the shirtlessness. There were bruises, fresh ones, scattered along Otabek’s torso as well, some dipping below the waist of his grey sweats.

“Wish I’d been there to see you punch him though,” Yuri said, staring at Otabek’s back in the light of the dusky standing lamp Otabek switched on.

“Yeah, quitting smoking is hard. Was gonna punch someone sooner or later. He volunteered by being a dick.”

“What’d he say?”

“Just talking shit.”

The short-lived joy of someone else calling Viktor a dick was pushed aside by Yuri’s heart hammering like a klaxon, round and round, straining against his chest because Otabek was an idiot but also because he stretched right in front of Yuri, showing off every line of every muscle in his back and arms.

“You gotta give me more. He’s literally always talking shit!” Yuri said breathlessly.

“Not worth repeating,” Otabek said and yawned, then grimaced. “Gym?”

Yuri snapped his eyes up. “Yeah,” he said, everything on fire at once.

“You okay?” Otabek asked.

Yuri fought to relax his arms and let his bag swing down on its strap. “Yeah. Fine. Are you up for it?” he asked, straining not to look at the bruises again.

“Not for the ring, but for the company.” Otabek held Yuri’s gaze for a moment. “Give me a minute.”

Yuri nodded and sunk into a crouch against the wall by the door when Otabek disappeared around the corner into the nook with the bed and the bathroom. The cellar apartment was tiny and sparse. Yuri knew all the furniture came with the place and it didn’t look like Otabek had brought any with him. The crowbar was leaning against the same wall as Yuri, in the corner behind the door. Easy to reach.

Yuri cleared his throat. “How’d Vitya manage to surprise you?”

“Let him.”

“Why?” Yuri asked. Some free weights were shoved under the coffee table.

“Quitting smoking is _really_ hard. Needed more people to punch.” Otabek walked back into sight, smoothing down his hair. The sweatpants remained, but he’d thrown on a hoodie and socks. His knuckles were bruised and torn open in places.

“They might try again,” Yuri said, hating how tremulous and breathless he sounded. If he knew one thing about the men in Grandpa and Uncle Yasha’s employ, it was that they revered pride. And having a dishwasher new to the organisation not submit would be a big blow to that pride.

“Might,” Otabek agreed, not seeming overly worried, and shoved his feet into his boots. “But you’re my lucky charm,” he added and held out a hand. Yuri took it and was pulled up to his feet.

“I’m what?” Yuri said, but so breathless it was a whisper. He was almost close enough to taste Otabek’s breath, the minty freshness that wasn’t marred by tobacco any longer.

“No one’s gonna try anything if the boss’ grandson is with me,” Otabek said and squeezed Yuri’s fingers before letting go. “Cold outside?”

“It’s February,” Yuri said softly. “It’s always cold.” He slipped his hands into his coat pockets and hunched his shoulders to hide the way he shuddered at every frantic heartbeat. He was safe but still afraid.

Otabek finished dressing and they headed out. Yuri flipped his hood up on top of his hat the create a bit of shade from the sunglare while Otabek squinted against it. The bruises on his face were startlingly colourful in the light and Yuri kept glancing at them. The one at the corner of Otabek’s mouth was the darkest, but there were others too, revealed by the brightness.

“Not pretty, right?” Otabek said, surefooted on the ice and snow and salt slush.

Yuri grasped the edge of his hood and brought it forwards, blocking Otabek from his sight. “The salt makes the snow grey,” he said.

“The bruises,” Otabek clarified. “Or d’you have another reason for staring at me?”

Yuri dropped his gaze to his feet, kicking at blocks of snow that had fallen from the mounds of it piled on the edge of the street and the curb. _Not pretty?_ Yuri had never given bruises as much thought as he was doing now. It seemed like anything could be pretty when in the right place.

“Just wondering how stupid you are,” Yuri said. “You give Fuckface Nikiforov one inch and he’ll take the whole foot.”

“You worried about me?”

“Friendly advice,” Yuri clarified. The toes of his boots had a spotty grey coating from the salt. The charms hanging from the zipper on his left boot had tangled together into an unsightly mess.

“Like the chapstick,” Otabek said then.

“Yeah, like that.”

“Appreciate it,” Otabek said. “But don’t worry. Boss already told me to keep my distance.”

Yuri peered out from under the rim of his hood, giving Otabek a glance. His profile was unperturbed, and the lack of discernible expression only enhanced by the imprint of someone’s knuckles across his mouth. Yuri wanted nothing more than to touch the bruises. The way his heart thrummed was like the side of the dough mixer at full speed and just as prone to overheating.


	11. Sunday, 9th of February TWO

The gym was only half lit, with the punching bags and gym equipment left in the dark, while the end with the rings and the mirrors and Lilia’s corner had some of the overheads on. She was in her massive chair, leaning back, with Mila sitting on the corner of her desk, wearing a black and red tracksuit, and Viktor leaning onto it on the other side in his usual suit and trench coat.

“Yurasik! You’re free!” Mila raised her hand in greeting. “Otabek, you let him drag you here despite last night?”

“Not dead yet,” Otabek said and Mila hopped off the desk to meet them. Viktor stood up, looking constipated. Aunt Lilia was stone-faced.

“Oh, wow,” she said, reaching to touch Otabek’s face. Yuri saw Otabek go very still. “Twinsies.” She pointed at her own face, then moved to press her cheek against Otabek’s to take a selfie.

Yuri dropped his bag and hoped it would’ve made a bigger sound than just a dull thud. “Is the gym closed or something?” he growled. Mila had seen Otabek fight.

“Not for you,” Viktor said, having followed Mila. He opened his arms to greet Yuri, ignoring Otabek. “Yuranechka, it’s been so long.”

“The one good thing about being away was not seeing your face all week, Face,” Yuri replied, stomping snow from his boots. He wouldn’t attack Mila so he directed all his frustration at Viktor, and, frankly, Viktor deserved it. “Fucking explain yourself, Vite-na-khuy.”

“Kitten!” Viktor put a hand to his heart, taking a theatrical step backwards. He could pretend innocence all he wanted, but Yuri saw through the act. It was in the eyes, cold like Baikal. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh yeah, of course you don’t,” Yuri grunted, looking past Viktor at where Mila was still leaning against Otabek like they were friends. Or more. She’d seen Otabek fight and got to talk to him all day when Yuri was at school. He snapped his eyes back to Viktor and caught the tail-end of a smug smile.

“Truly,” Viktor insisted. “I’m the innocent party this time. It was your dishwasher who assaulted _me_.”

Yuri stepped up to him, shoving his face into Viktor’s although he was still shorter. “Whatever. He didn’t deserve to beaten up by _four_ of your guys!”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Viktor didn’t back down and closed the distance between them even further. Yuri snarled. “I don’t get to defend myself? Tsk. You’re so biased, Yurionok. Isn’t my face just as pretty as his? Why mar perfection?”

“He’s not pretty,” Yuri said loudly enough that his voice rang across the gym and caused both an explosion of silence from the others and an implosion of embarrassment for him. “Fuck off, Vitya! What’re you even doing here? And for the fucking record, you’re not pretty either!”

“Ouch.” Viktor staggered. “I’m here on business,” he continued blithely. “And then I happened upon Milasha and Auntie Lilinka here and stayed for a chat.”

“And I came here to be taught how to defend myself,” Mila added, coming to stand by them. “Good thing you two came, now you can teach me. Vitasik’s useless.”

“I have many skills, but this isn’t one of them,” Viktor admitted. “As Yura likes to remind me, I’m just a face.” He put both his hands under his chin and fluttered his lashes, then laughed condescendingly and strolled back over to Aunt Lilia’s desk.

Yuri turned towards his gym bag in disgust, kicking his boots into the wall in preparation for changing into his boxing shoes. When he looked up from lacing them, he got caught on Otabek’s eyes like a flyaway piece of cloth on a nail. Otabek flicked his gaze at Viktor, curling his lip in antipathy, then went to pick up two rolls of cloth hand wraps. He handed them to Mila.

“What are these for?” she asked.

Yuri snorted, but Otabek just took one the wraps back from her and unrolled it, gesturing for her to hold out her hand. “You need to support your fingers,” Otabek explained and began wrapping her hand.

“Do I need these if I wear gloves?” Mila asked.

“Yes,” Otabek said.

“Yurushka,” Lilia called from her corner. “Come here.”

Yuri threw one last glance at Otabek and Mila staring up at him with a smile, but trotted over to Lilia’s corner. Her desk was clean of everything except the ashtray, a lighter, and a glass of fizzy water. Viktor was on the phone a distance away, admiring himself in the mirrors and doing pliés with one hand on the barre. “What?”

“So, you’ve returned,” she said, leaning back in her chair, her cigarette holder with its unlit cigarette held between her fingers.

“Yeah, I guess,” Yuri muttered. Everyone acted as though he’d been on a holiday in Southern Europe instead of grounded at home.

Aunt Lilia nodded and tilted the cigarette holder towards him. Yuri took the hint and lit her cigarette with the gilded lighter on the desk. “Do you remember my rules for the class?”

“No excuses, no talking back,” Yuri repeated. “No acting out. But-”

“No buts,” she added. She’d rarely been comforting. A woman made all out of angles and a core of steel.

“But I’m not in your class anymore!” Yuri said anyway.

“The rules apply,” she replied calmly and inhaled from her holder. She never let the smoke come out of her nose, but blew it primly from between pursed lips.

“Laws are a collection of rules but those never apply to you!” Yuri pointed out with frustration. “So why would your rules apply to me? Yours or Grandpa’s or anyone’s!”

Lilia tapped her cigarette on the edge of the crystal ashtray. “They apply because you got caught,” she said, always practical. “Which is how it works with all rules. And laws.”

“Are you telling me I could do anything I want as long as I don’t get caught?” Yuri said in surprise, both at the fact she would give him this advice and that he hadn’t thought of it himself. It sounded more like something Viktor would say.

“You’ve caught on,” Lilia said, leaning back in her chair. “That’s how crime works.”

“Uhm.” Yuri swallowed, glancing at Viktor who gave him an insipid little wave. “Thanks, Auntie,” he said.

“Now turn around and let me do your bun,” she said, putting her cigarette holder down and gesturing for him to come around the desk.

“What? No, you make it too tight,” Yuri complained, but slouched over and slumped on the floor at her feet.

“Nonsense. It’s meant not to move and if you insist on having this hair, you must make sure it stays in place when you need it to.” Lilia grasped the tie out of his hair and gathered the strands anew, pulling it tight enough for Yuri to feel it in his ears and eyes.

Viktor’s nihilism had never sat well with what Yuri knew of Yakov and his mode of operating. Uncle Yasha was a life-hardened man, but with care and compassion that were there for his nearest and dearest. Viktor was a fucking monster with no shame or sense of others’ well-being. Him being Yakov’s underboss hadn’t made much sense until now. But ruthlessness was effective, and Aunt Lilia had always been nothing but effective. Guess Yakov had a type.

“Auntie, was Vitya your student too?” Yuri asked to hide the whimpers from having his scalp tortured. He could almost hear his hair snapping from the stress of being wound so tight.

“He’s still my student,” she said, confirming Yuri’s suspicions. “As are you, and Milasha. You never stop. All done.” She patted him on the shoulder.

“Thank you,” Yuri said, feeling the rock-hard bun Aunt Lilia had created. He looked up at her over his shoulder, the familiar thin-lipped face. She didn’t show her age, or her emotions. She’d never be caught acting maternal if someone was watching.

“Stop making Kolya and Yasha worry,” she said. “They’re so ornery when they don’t know what’s happening, and it worries everyone else. Even your new boy was very worried. I don’t like it, or approve of it. Ksana was too lenient with you, as Kolya was with her and now with you.”

“Grandpa isn’t lenient with me,” Yuri argued meekly as he got up.

She picked up her cigarette and leaned back in her chair. “Isn’t he?” she said, pursing her lips. “Do you know why your kitchen assistant assaulted Vitosha?”

“He was talking shit,” Yuri said. “Which is always anyway, so it’s not hard to belie-”

“Vitosha does have a particular tone of voice that annoys people, whatever he says,” she agreed. “But he merely asked if Mr Altin had ulterior plans regarding you.”

Yuri’s eyes darted towards Otabek and Mila, the former correcting the posture of the latter. Then Yuri’s guilty conscience dragged his attention back to Aunt Lilia. “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean,” he muttered.

“You’re a bright young man.” Aunt Lilia exhaled smoke delicately. “I’m not saying the attack wasn’t justified.”

Yuri made a little sound of agreement. The Brotherhood was run by old men who’d survived prisons and communism, and Yuri had heard enough from his grandfather about the treatment of gay men in those regimes. The forced derogatory tattoos and activities. It was right to put things like that to rest with violence. Yuri’s fingers drew up into fists and he held himself so still he shook.

Aunt Lilia sighed. “Don’t get caught,” she said and gestured for him to go away.

Yuri slunk over to the bench to finish wrapping his hands. Otabek had taken Mila aside to show her some basic positions, but took the time to follow Yuri with his eyes as Yuri picked up a jumprope to warm up. He didn’t care that the gym was basically empty. It was just a relief to be somewhere else than home and have people to talk to. Potya may have been his life but she kept very quiet.

Yuri ran through his warm-up and then expended some of his energy in pummelling a punching bag. His bun didn’t move an inch all through his frenzied regimen. He kept an eye on Otabek and Mila, and was greatly disturbed by Tall Man Christophe walking in some time later. He didn’t pay attention to their exercise and went straight to Aunt Lilia’s corner to chat and/or do business with her and Viktor.

“Give me a hand, Yura,” Mila called him over, taking off her tracksuit jacket to reveal a black sports bra underneath. “I want to try sparring, but Otabek’s in no condition to help me.”

Otabek shrugged but didn’t argue when Yuri glanced at him.

“Fine,” Yuri said and climbed into the ring. Mila followed and held her hands up like Otabek had just taught her. “Feet wider apart,” Yuri told her.

“What now?” she asked.

“Just try to hit me.” Even so Yuri still almost failed to dodge her first attempt because his attention was on Christophe’s sudden laughter that rose above their murmured conversation. He barely managed to yank his head out of the way of Mila’s swing, and even so her glove grazed his cheek.

“Oh, sorry,” she said instantly, dropping her hands.

“No,” Yuri said. “Never drop your defence!” He held his arms up until Mila followed his example to take up the position again. “And don’t say sorry! You have to be prepared to take a few hits and land a few hits.”

“Okay, sor-” She cut herself off and smiled. “You’re so intense today, Yurochka.”

Yuri snorted and paid her back with a soft punch to her side. What he _felt_ like was an idiot.

“You look good up there,” Otabek said.

“Thanks!” Mila said happily, but while she was concentrated on trying to land a hit, Yuri looked down at Otabek.

Otabek wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were on Yuri, and his lips bore an almost smile on his bruised lips, and his eyes were very dark. Yuri’s heart shattered into a thousand little bells of alarm, fright, and rapture, all ringing at the same time. They filled him up with such sound and resonating desire.

“Shouldn’t you concentrate on your training and not your audience, kitten?” Viktor said from the other side of the ring. Always seeing where seeing wasn’t invited.

Yuri pulled his frayed attention away from Otabek. “Why don’t you climb up in here, Face?” he said loudly. “Oh, I forgot, you don’t fight fair. Maybe the Tall Man will fight for you if you suck his dick, huh? Are you afraid to fight me because I’m going to be running the business and you’ll be working for me?” He was pretty sure Christophe wasn’t fluent in Russian.

“Now, now, kitten. The Brotherhood isn’t a monarchy. You won’t inherit a position even if you inherit the wealth. If you want to lead you have to work for it.” Viktor smiled with his teeth, then slapped his forehead with his hand. “Oh, but _I_ forgot. You’re not allowed on account of being a _child_.”

“Fuck _off!_ ” Yuri howled, vaulting over the ropes to charge at Viktor.

Viktor laughed, dripping venom, and danced away. “Be careful, kitten, you’ll get grounded again!”

“ _Gentlemen_ ,” Aunt Lilia’s voice cut through like a flame cutter through steel. She didn’t need to raise her voice.

Yuri froze, but so did Viktor, and Yuri took some bitter pleasure in seeing Viktor lose his idiot smile as Aunt Lilia stepped out from behind her desk. Yuri forced himself to drop his gloved fists, breathing harshly.

“As of right now, the gym is closed. Leave,” Lilia said. “Separately and immediately. Vitosha, Mr Giacometti, you first.”

“Yes, Auntie,” Viktor said, with only a hint of his usual sing-song cheer. He smoothed out his greatcoat and took his leather gloves out of his pocket. “Chris, let’s go somewhere more beautiful,” he said in English and swept off in a flutter of his coat.

Christophe turned at the last minute before leaving to blow them all kisses. “ _Ciao a tutti belli!_ ”

Yuri threw his gloves into the wall.

“Save your tantrum for home,” Aunt Lilia instructed.

Yuri didn’t know if they got dressed to leave in silence or if the hum of his rage drowned out everything else. The raw, cold air outside was like a slap to make him even more angry, and he barrelled across the street to pick up a large chunk of ice, hurling it into the wall while he screamed.

“Yura!” Mila hurried after him. She laid her hand on Yuri’s shoulder but he shrugged her away and kicked at the ice, over and over again. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No! I wanna fucking _kill_ him!” Yuri’s breath formed steam dragons as he panted.

“Wanna go to the bar?” Mila changed her angle of approach, tucking the ends of her scarf more securely into her collar. Otabek was still standing on the other side of the street, hunched up into his jacket, looking like a bear or a bull.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Yuri shrieked, making the mostly empty street echo. Then he gulped in lungfuls of frigid air. “Fine,” he finally said, approximating a normal speaking volume.

Mila hugged herself against the cold. “Well then, let’s go plan his funeral.”

Otabek trotted across the street to join them. He said nothing but his dark face spoke all the necessary words and expletives. Yuri took some comfort in that. Mila looked at both of them, then pushed past to head down the street towards the bar. Yuri turned to follow and Otabek matched his pace, letting Mila walk ahead in front of them.

The few cars that flanked the street all wore piles of snow on top. The snow was like sparkly buttercream under the pallid streetlights and between the grey walls of the buildings around. There’d been shops there a long time ago, but now most of the windows were empty. Their footsteps crunched sharply on the mix of gravel and ice on the pavement.

A group of men were squatting by the wall of the bar and smoking, Uncle Sima among them. Mila opted to stay with them for a smoke of her own while Yuri and Otabek went in, although Otabek paused at the door.

“Is she safe?” he asked quietly, and Yuri might’ve found his concern touching if he wasn’t so fucking furious.

“Yeah, Sima’s got her back,” Yuri said. He hadn’t even paused to question a Mila staying out there with a group of middle-aged to elderly men, most of whom were probably a little bit drunk. They were people who came with the territory and acknowledged Grandpa’s or Uncle Yasha’s authority. It was fine.

The bar was noisy and full, but Yuri got them a space by the counter by pushing people aside. Granny Lyusenka was napping in the corner. The bar was pretty much the only social space in the neighbourhood so it was a popular spot. Yuri ordered two beers because he already had a sting in his throat and didn’t need vodka to make it worse.

“I heard what Viktor said to you,” he muttered over the lip of his bottle.

“Couldn’t let him say shit like that in public,” Otabek said.

“Of course fucking not,” Yuri agreed bitterly. The beer was bitter too and nothing like Grandpa’s kvass. He was glad it was so noisy and crowded in there. It made it easier to not think.

“You agree on the burial site yet?” Mila said, pushing in next to Yuri at the counter. “Beer? Uh, no thanks. Can I get a little bit of vodka, Ulya?” She leaned over the counter towards the bartender. “And a carton of Primas?”

“Fucking again?” Yuri grunted.

“I donated all my smokes to the uncles outside.” She smiled. “They’re so sweet.”

“They’re con men and thieves!” Yuri huffed. It was true, anyway. “I was thinking I’d shove Vitya’s face into the meat grinder and see where that takes me.”

Otabek snorted on his other side, turning so his body faced Yuri, elbow on the counter. It was so crowded he had to stand very close, practically on top of Yuri, his knee pressed into the back of Yuri’s knee as he slouched over the bar. Would he have punched Viktor if there hadn’t been others around to hear Viktor?

“And then I’d just dump him in a ditch somewhere. That’s all he deserves,” Yuri continued grimly. It didn’t make him feel any better. It made him tired and _small_.

Mila slung her arm across Yuri’s shoulders and threw back her shot. “Nice,” she said breathlessly.

Yuri leaned against her, placing his head on her shoulder, and she stroked his hair. It allowed Yuri to push his hip against Otabek and let the two of them prop him up.


	12. Friday, 14th of February

After being grounded, returning to normalcy was a relief, and Yuri relished the freedom he hadn’t thought he had and the moments that freedom gave him to spend with Otabek. The others too, but especially Otabek.

The cold didn’t seem to abate at all, and the week following the gym incident, while blessedly free of Viktor, remained freezing with abundantly azure high-pressure clear skies. That vivid blue sky greeted Yuri on the next Friday as well when he walked out of school at the end of the day. He scanned the area around the gates for a familiar black leather jacket with its wolverine fur collar. Good, he’d heard from the owner of said fur collar, because it didn’t freeze in damp and cold.

A strong gust of frigid wind distracted him and caused a ripple of shrieks and exclamations of dismay from the people around him, some of them his classmates, as the wind yanked on open coats and loose scarves. At least one hat was lost, and Yuri held onto his own scarf with both hands as he dashed across the yard towards the gates.

“Fuck, it’s cold!” he said by way of greeting when he came across Otabek by the fence, cowering from the windchill as well. Another glacial gust pulled Yuri’s hood down and caused further chaos across the yard as people fought to keep their loose items of clothing in place. “And fuck this wind!” Yuri added, pitching his voice over the gale and the noise of a school letting out.

“Won’t be windy underground,” Otabek said. He didn’t take his hands out of his pockets or touch Yuri in anyway, but he looked. It was almost as good.

“What, like when I’m dead?” Yuri pulled his hood up again and held it there, though then the wind went down his sleeve.

“In the metro,” Otabek said.

Yuri sputtered with laughter, even though the wind took that from his mouth too, carrying it down the street. “Did Grandpa say anything?” he asked, moving closer to Otabek instead of bothering to shout.

“No,” Otabek said.

“Then we don’t have to go right back?” Yuri prompted.

“Yeah,” Otabek said.

“ _Yes_ ,” Yuri hissed. He’d been stretching the limits of Grandpa’s _leniency_ every day, and so far Grandpa had said nothing about Yuri staying out after school as long as Otabek was with him. Yuri had absolutely nothing against spending more time alone with Otabek. “Come on, I want something hot with sugar and caffeine,” Yuri declared, crossing the street after a quick glance in each direction. Otabek loped after him, ducking his face deeper into his scarf, hands still tightly in his pockets.

“So a coffee?” Otabek said when they reached the other side.

The wind was slightly less in the lee of the taller buildings and Yuri’s whole face tingled with the perceived warmth after being cold-numbed. “If all these places weren’t so fucking full,” Yuri said after peering into the nearest coffee shop.

“It’s Valentine’s Day.” Otabek’s dark reflection blocked out the sun around Yuri’s face in the window. “Probably why it’s full.”

“No,” Yuri said, although the red and pink balloons in the coffee shop told the same story as Otabek. “It is? Stupid American holidays.”

“Isn’t that why you wanted to get coffee with me?” Otabek asked, and Yuri flushed with warmth that had nothing to do with the lack of wind.

“No,” he muttered, side-eyeing Otabek. Not because it was Valentine’s Day, but because he hadn’t remembered it was.

“Okay,” Otabek said.

_Okay,_ Yuri thought, hands still against the window of the shop. It was hard to tell with Otabek’s face mostly hidden behind his scarf what his overall expression really was. The patrons of the coffee shop just on the other side of the window knocked on the glass, startling Yuri out of his stare. Yuri gave them double middle fingers and pushed off the window.

“But if that’d been why I-” Yuri started.

“Yeah,” Otabek said. “Whatever day it is.”

“You’re so good at following orders,” Yuri said, left breathless by the wind stealing his voice. They both ducked away from the wind, turning their backs to the blast that rattled the tiny bells and cat charms on Yuri’s backpack.

“Thanks,” Otabek said when the tempestuous weather allowed them to continue. Yuri started down the street, looking into the few shops that were open on the same street as his school.

“It wasn’t a compliment,” Yuri said, knowing Otabek was right behind him. They weren’t the only ones making the pilgrimage towards the metro station and the shelter it offered, and a car honked its impatient horn at the people dashing across the street where the wind was at its worst.

Otabek caught up to Yuri. “Okay,” he repeated

“Do you _like_ following orders?” Yuri asked, grabbing his hood as the wind buffeted them, sending a wave of loose snow down from the tops of the buildings. Otabek turned his face away from the stinging shower.

“Don’t mind it if I don’t mind the person giving the orders.”

“You came here without knowing who your boss would be,” Yuri pointed out, although he was extrapolating from what little he knew of Otabek’s reason to be there. “What if the boss was someone like Vitya-the-Fuckface?”

“Wouldn’t work for him in the first place,” Otabek said simply.

“Grandpa said he knows your father. Is that why you came?” Yuri pressed, curious. Trying to get information out of Otabek was like pulling nails from an unwilling victim.

“Yeah, guess so.” Otabek squinted at him through the sparkle of sun on airborne ice crystals.

Yuri scowled at the uninformative answer. “How’s this better than being a butcher and stealing cars?” he asked.

“New place, new people,” Otabek said. He took Yuri’s sleeve and pulled him out of the way of a truck with its brakes locked, sliding on the icy road. “Four fewer people telling me what to do on a daily basis,” Otabek confided.

“You mean your older siblings,” Yuri said although he was staring at Otabek’s face while Otabek was looking at the haphazard traffic.

“Two sisters and two brothers,” Otabek replied.

“Are they all in the business too?” Yuri asked.

“They’ve all worked at the butchershop.” Otabek pulled him along to cross the road and into the descending stairwell to get to the metro.

“No, I mean.” Yuri made a vague gesture. “ _The business_.” Maybe Otabek didn’t know where he was washing dishes. “Grandpa’s diner is a front, you know that, right?”

Otabek looked at him, one corner of his mouth crooking up higher than the other as he smiled. “I know. Guess it was family business for us too. Used to jack cars for my brother’s chopshop.”

The conversation rested as they rushed down the stairs to the train that had just arrived. There were no free seats so they stood awkwardly in the middle of the aisle, grasping onto the poles for support. Yuri had ample time to stare and dwell in the coiling serpent of attraction that filled him when he looked at Otabek. It was both better and worse when Otabek caught him looking, which was almost every day, and said nothing, just nodded. Yuri would stop when he got caught, but every time, a little bit later, Yuri would catch Otabek staring at him instead.

It was the same now, except instead of just acknowledging the stare, Otabek leaned in and whispered, “How’s my ass today?”

“It was Mila!” Yuri protested. “She’s the one who-”

“Yeah, but you were looking too.”

Yuri couldn’t deny that. That was the monster living inside him. The one who looked and desired, and one who resonated with the curl of Otabek’s lips, sending his heart into overdrive. How unfair that he should only meet Otabek after Mama’s death. He’d always told her everything, and now this had happened and he had no one to tell.

“It’s fine. It’s great! It’s always great,” he muttered. Not that he’d had the opportunity to really appreciate it yet today.

Yuri wasn’t picky about his coffee if it was sweet and milky enough so they stopped at a little kiosk above the metro station. Yuri filled his to-go cup only halfway to add enough milk. There were a few standing tables so they stopped to lean on one, but the wind was too vicious, rattling empty paper cups and other rubbish around the legs of the tables and people. One particularly hyperboreal blast of air sent them racing back down the stairs towards the relative warmth of the station.

Otabek collided with a man coming up the stairs and spilled his tea. “Hey,” Otabek said.

“Hey!” the man grunted, irritated. “Look at what you did to my fucking coat.”

“Fuck off,” Otabek said, becoming just as irritated. “You spilled my drink.”

Yuri was already at the bottom of the stairs, holding the plastic cup lid against his lips but not drinking. The man shoved at Otabek, and Otabek jammed his forearm sideway against the man’s throat, pushing him into the wall, and kneed him in the groin. The man doubled over and slumped on the stairs while Otabek came down the steps two at a time and took Yuri’s elbow.

“Quitting smoking still hard?” Yuri asked as he was being towed underground.

“Yeah,” Otabek grunted.

“Do you want half of mine?” Yuri offered his coffee.

“Nah,” Otabek said.

Yuri glanced over his shoulder and saw the man still folded over on the stairs, rocking slowly in pain. He drank a mouthful of his coffee. Otabek had pulled his scarf up again so only the upper half of his face was visible up to the brim of his cap, but the visible part was visibly annoyed.

“Buy you a new one?” Yuri offered. That man probably hadn’t deserved being kicked in the dick, but Yuri’s heart was going double speed.

“Nah,” Otabek said, still irascible. He side-eyed Yuri as Yuri had another sip. “Coffee drinkers taste like coffee.”

The sweet coffee wasn’t hot enough to burn Yuri’s tongue with all the milk in it, but he did have to cough once after swallowing. “That’s the point,” he said hoarsely and held his cup closer in fear of Otabek grabbing it and dumping it into a bin in a reiteration of what Yuri had done to his cigarette weeks ago.

“We used to drink hot bone broth in the mornings,” Otabek said, giving Yuri another jolt.

“Bone broth? Like… meat stock?” Yuri rolled the taste of his coffee around his mouth, wondering if it’d really be unpleasant for someone else to experience off his tongue. He’d kissed a smoker once, so maybe the inverse was true for Otabek.

“Yeah. So coffee never became a habit.”

They stepped into the train, the one heading back towards home. Yuri saw the man Otabek had downed limping into the station, but the doors of the train closed in front of him. “What about beating people up?” Yuri asked as the train lurched forwards.

“Only if they deserve it.”

“Right,” Yuri said. It was warm enough in the train to push down his hood and take off his hat. His hair crackled with static electricity as he did so, sticking up in wispy strands, trying to adhere to his woollen hat.

“Aw,” Otabek said in a tone Yuri hadn’t heard from him before and reached over to pat Yuri’s hair down.

“Fuck off.” Yuri swatted Otabek’s hand away, although he had to hold back his laughter. “I can’t help it.”

Otabek’s gloved hand lingered a little longer, brushing Yuri’s stubbornly staticky hair away from his forehead with the backs of his fingers. “Your hair’s nice,” he said and dropped his hand, stuffing it back into the pocket of his jacket. “I like the colour.”

The gesture and the words were far too intimate to be displayed in a metro and Yuri glanced around guiltily. There were fewer people going away from the city centre than towards it, but the train was far from empty. The hum of the train rattling along its rails in the long tunnel gave their words some privacy, but not their actions.

“Thanks,” Yuri said and awkwardly pulled his hat back on with one hand, the other occupied with the half-full cup of coffee. It was nowhere near hot anymore, but he drank it despite the temperature and despite Otabek’s earlier denunciation of the taste of coffee. Otabek watched him take every sip, quiet, but lulling Yuri into a haze of expectant contentment.


	13. Thursday, 27th of February

“Yes, Grandpa,” Yuri repeated for the thousandth time. “Yes, I will text you every hour on the hour. Yes, we’ll be careful. Grandpa! We’ll stay around other people the whole time.”

“I don’t appreciate your impatience, Yurochka,” Grandpa said. “Because it means you don’t appreciate my concern!”

Yuri held onto the last dregs of his impatience tooth and nail while Mila gestured for him to hurry up. “I do appreciate your concern,” he said into the phone. “I do. I just- We’re just going _shopping._ ”

“Your grandmother was just going across the street. Your mother was just going _shopping_ ,” Grandpa said, sounding both fearful and angry.

“Can you please trust me just this once? You know I was with Mama when-” Yuri pleaded, covering his other ear to hear his grandfather’s put-upon sigh as the metro arrived with a whistle of wind and rumble of engine.

“Fine,” Grandpa barked at the other end. “Text me every hour.”

“Yes, Grandpa,” Yuri said for the 1001st time. “Bye!”

Grandpa grumbled a goodbye and Yuri was finally free to lower his hand as he took a seat next to Mila on the train. She’d come to meet him straight out of school instead of Otabek because of Yuri’s hard-won privilege of getting to go shopping before his birthday. Having only her there was also a hard-won privilege. Grandpa had insisted for a very long time that Otabek should come too, but Yuri had fought until it wasn’t so.

“I wish I had someone who cared as much,” Mila said, only half teasing, as Yuri rubbed the arm he’d held tensely bent up with frustration and worry that Grandpa would revoke his permission.

“Someone who cares a little bit less would be more fun,” Yuri muttered. “Why doesn’t he just wrap me in bubblewrap and post me to Norilsk to live with seals?”

Mila laughed and put her head on Yuri’s shoulder, flattening her curls against him. “I got up so early today, wake me up when we get there,” she said and closed her eyes.

“It’s just 20 minutes,” Yuri argued, but let her stay. They both knew he’d been up earlier than her with it being delivery day at the shop. He took out his phone to look for inspiration, but his mind dwelt elsewhere. The two weeks since Valentine’s Day had been good ones, even better because they were counting down to his birthday, but also because of the unquantifiable changes to what was between him and Otabek. They walked to the shop, they walked to school, Yuri talked and Otabek listened.

“So is Otik your bodyguard or what?” Mila said suddenly, all pretence of sleep resting solely on her closed eyes. “I heard you tell Uncle Kolya you didn’t want him to come shopping with us, but he kept insisting.”

“He’s not my bodyguard,” Yuri scoffed. “Grandpa just seems to think that since we’re friendly and with Beka working at his shop, he can order Beka to do whatever he wants.”

“I think he looked disappointed he wasn’t coming with us,” Mila commented. “And I would’ve taken him.”

“Well, I don’t want him here,” Yuri said. He might’ve wanted Otabek everywhere else, but all he wanted for today was to be able to look at sparkly things for a few hours in peace and pretend he might one day wear some, even if it was about as likely as being posted to Norilsk. Mila was the only one he trusted with that. “It’s my birthday.”

“You’re such a child, Yurasik.” Mila clicked her tongue, but cuddled closer. It was early enough in the afternoon for the trains not to be incredibly crowded so they had some space to talk. “It’s not even your birthday for another three days.”

“It’s my birthday _week_ ,” Yuri sniffed. Mila took his hand and squeezed it awkwardly because they both wore stiff and bulky mittens. Hers were white and Yuri’s were blue to go with his dark blue coat. He’d twisted his hair up and hid it under his hat. Her hat had a cute fluffy pompom on top of it. Yuri didn’t know if he wanted Otabek to think he was pretty like Mila in the gold dress, or that he was capable and brave and strong. They weren’t mutually exclusive things because Mila was all of them, but for Yuri it might have been impossible to encompass everything the same way she did.

He only dwelt on it a little bit during the train ride, but Mila saw through him as soon as she opened her eyes. She held his hand and pulled him along into the first coffee shop they came across where they got hot flavoured coffees, and then headed off to window shop for a bit.

“Do you like him?” Mila asked, sipping at her coffee in front of an enormous display window of winter coats.

“Who?” Yuri asked. He’d already burnt his tongue in the coffee.

“Otabek,” she huffed as though it should be obvious. “Hold this,” she shoved her coffee at him and dug out a cigarette and lit it.

“Do you have to do that?” Yuri asked, dodging her question.

“You’re so gay for him, Yurochka,” Mila said, taking her cup back. Yuri glanced around, but no one was near them and the traffic probably drowned out most of what they said. He moved closer to her anyway.

“Don’t do that,” he hissed. “Don’t say that.”

“So I think you like him,” Mila continued. At least she turned her face away when she exhaled the smoke.

“So?” Yuri gave up and shrugged. “So what if I do? It won’t- It doesn’t make any difference.”

“It does to me.” She nudged him forwards and they walked slowly along the street where Yuri forgot to pay any attention to the displays because of all the frightening complications of being gay. “Like, I won’t make a move on him because I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Haven’t you already made a ton of moves?” Yuri grunted.

“That’s just flirting,” she said and tilted her head back to empty the last drop of coffee from her cup. “He’s fun to flirt with. He’s fun to flirt _at,_ ” she elaborated. “Are you going to finish that?”

Yuri had lost the taste for the drink that didn’t know if it was coffee or chocolate and handed it to her. He inhaled and exhaled through his mouth to cool down his tongue and his thoughts. It was still cold enough to keep the snow on the ground even though February was almost over, but not nearly as cold as it’d been just a few weeks earlier.

“I really thought he liked me until you got grounded,” she admitted, linking their arms together. Yuri felt guilty. “I thought,” she sighed, “I _hoped_ he did. It would’ve been nice to date someone decent.”

“Your idea of decent is weird,” Yuri said, even though everything inside him had been shaken loose and was rattling around in a confusing mess. “He’s a criminal.”

Mila laughed, although it was a little subdued. “Yeah, but Yura, so am I.” She pressed against him a little.

“Milya, you’re a waitress,” Yuri argued. She was an orphan too, much like many others who went hand in hand with the Brotherhood. It was both of their family, those uncles with finger-rings tattooed on their knuckles and those aunts who ran the business from behind the curtains.

“And he’s a dishwasher,” Mila pointed out. “I knew he was into you when you two shoved up at the gym that Sunday you almost had it out with Vitya. The way he was looking at you.”

“What?” Yuri almost choked on air. “That was just- He was-”

“He was what?” Mila huffed. “I know what I saw. I know what I’ve seen almost every day at the shop for the past few weeks.”

Yuri didn’t have it in him to deny any of that. “It’s that obvious?” It made his chest heavy. He didn’t want to be obvious, and he didn’t want others to know or see and take advantage or give him trouble.

“So you do like him,” Mila concluded. “Because I think he thinks the sun shines out of your ass.”

Yuri squeezed her hand. “Dunno if that’s true,” he muttered. “But the other thing is.”

“I know.” Mila finished her cigarette and put it out in the coffee Yuri had given her. She dumped the cup in a bin. “Come on, Yurochka. Let’s go in somewhere. I’m freezing and I want to shop.”

She took his arm with both hands and he put a dutiful arm across her shoulders to bring her closer. It hadn’t been that long ago when he’d been shorter than her, and now he could almost look at the top of her head like this. He was tired of things changing all the time, it was like treading shifting sand or snow all the time. He suspected it maybe wasn’t normal for someone his age to be so tired.

“Ah, this one,” Mila said and led Yuri into a clothes store aimed at teenage girls. If he’d been alone, he wouldn’t have gone in, but it was different with her, and Yuri was quickly seduced into enjoying himself by the bright colours and glittery things.

They gathered armfuls of clothes to try on and Yuri snuck into the same changing room as Mila. They’d been rubbing elbows in the small kitchen for years, and there wasn’t much shame left, nor was this the first time for them to share a changing room. Despite Yuri’s recently widened shoulders and Mila’s hips they were near enough the same size to be able to pass clothing items to each other.

“You’re getting so big, Yurochka!” Mila exclaimed the first time Yuri took his shirt off. She counted the width of his shoulders with her palms as though she hadn’t been at the gym for the past few weekends and seen him in a tanktop. “When did all this happen?” She made her voice sound like an old woman’s.

“Leave it, granny.” Yuri pushed her away as she tried to squeeze his bicep. “When did _this_ happen?” He snuck a hand down to pinch at her belly, which had the tiniest amount of soft roundness.

Mila gasped and pulled on Yuri’s ponytail. “How dare you!” She laughed.

“It’s all the snacking you do in the walk-in,” Yuri said, snorting, and grabbed the shirt he’d wanted to try on. It was some sort of soft knit material, black with tiny black sequins sown in. The best part was the round cut-out in the back and the bright rhinestone working as a button.

“It looks great,” Mila says, having pulled on a silky pyjama set of booty shorts and a halter top.

“Yeah,” Yuri agreed, running his hands down the smooth, glittery front of the shirt. “But I’m not gonna get it.” Mila had seen him dancing in a tutu once. He’d been only 12 at the time, but still. She’d taken his hands and danced with him. She knew he wanted more than jeans and hoodies and boots, but it wasn’t that easy. Maybe once day he could transition into flamboyant suits like Viktor.

“Okay,” Mila said and smiled. She looked sad for a moment too. “What do you think of this?” She gestured at her pyjama set.

“It’s not for sleeping, is it?” Yuri said. He liked the silky texture and the little bit of lace it had, as well as the star pattern and shiny silvery colour. “You should get it.”

“It’s for wearing before bed, if you know what I mean.” Mila waggled her eyebrows and stuck out her ass, slapping one cheek. “Oh yeah.”

Yuri pulled his shirt over his eyes, groaning. “Stop it.”

“I bet Otik would like this set,” Mila continued, prodding Yuri in the side. Yuri folded away from her, protecting his sides, and completely covered his head with the shirt.

“No,” he said, then yanked his shirt down to glare at Mila. “Don’t say anything to him. About any of this, or about however you think he’s looking at me, or-”

“Yurochka,” Mila stopped him. “I’m not gonna spill your secrets. Hey.” She touched his cheek, but her soft expression was overtaken by a grin and Yuri drew away. “Your first boyfriend, Yura!” She clapped her hands together.

Yuri heaved a long groan, taking off the shirt to try on others. He tried some of the things she’d chosen too, but settled for more sedate colours and cuts. He knew very well what he wanted. It was only a pity that risk and reward didn’t seem to go hand in hand in regards to his desires.

*

“Yurochka! Pick up your boots!”

“Just kick them aside, Grandpa!”

“Now!”

Yuri had expected it but groaned all the same, making a show of being reluctant to no one except Potya who was a puddle on his chair. “It’s just _boots_.” Yuri kicked them aside himself and followed his grandfather into the kitchen.

“Have fun shopping?” Grandpa asked, rustling with carrier bags full of empty bottles.

“Would’ve been more fun if I didn’t have to check in all the time,” Yuri said, and Grandpa turned to give him a look, stopping to take in the purple trousers Yuri had worn specifically to show him.

“Tiger stripes,” Grandpa said and turned back to emptying the bags. “Ksanochka’s favourite was leopard spots.”

“I know,” Yuri muttered. “Got them for my birthday party.”

“They’re very cheerful,” Grandpa said, sounding everything but cheerful. “Help me with these.”

“Time to start more kvass?” Yuri took one of the bags to take out the used soda bottles Grandpa collected. He could’ve just bought new ones, but he didn’t. He could’ve got the shop a new computer too, but he didn’t. Or a new car.

“Yes.” Grandpa put his hand on top of Yuri’s head and tousled his loosely ponytailed hair. “How about a haircut for your birthday? An 18-year-old might want a style more suitable for a young man rather than a child.”

“Grandpa!” Yuri shook his hand away. “What’s wrong with my hair? I tie it back when I’m in the kitchen, don’t I? You promised I could keep growing it if I did that.”

“Yes. Yes, I did promise that,” Grandpa said with a sigh. He reached over and tousled Yuri’s hair again. “Yes, fine. You look so much like your mother.”

“Isn’t that... good?” Yuri touched his hair self-consciously. “Do I ever look like my dad?”

“No, never,” Grandpa said. “Did you pick up your boots?”

“ _Grandpa_ ,” Yuri groaned, and Grandpa guffawed then pulled Yuri into a one-armed hug.

“I can’t believe my little Yurochka’s turning 18 in just a few days. I was helping you learn how to ride a bicycle just yesterday!”

“Why do old people always exaggerate the rate at which time moves?” Yuri muttered into his grandfather’s shoulder, but he felt quite happy.

“It’s no exaggeration, little pirochka,” Grandpa said. “You’ll look on this moment in 50 years and think... Wasn’t it just yesterday? Where did all the time go? What did I do?”

Yuri’s time moved so slow he couldn’t even fathom that it might ever speed up. He’d clawed himself from last summer to this February. Every day had been an eternity. And yet the moments he wanted to remember were so far and few in between, slipping away even as they begun.

“I hope I’ll do something _fun_.” Yuri pulled away to help Nikolai empty the carrier bags.

“I hope you’ll do something worthwhile,” Grandpa said and squeezed Yuri’s shoulder gently.

“Yeah, but also fun,” Yuri insisted. _And I hope I get to kill whoever killed Mama_.


	14. Friday, 28th of February

“Fuck,” Yuri said, flicking the light switch up and down. It caused no reaction in the lights. “Shit,” he said when he saw the glass shards all over the floor and the tables, glimmering in the dark. “Fucking shit,” he said when he walked across the crunchy floor and tried the front door. The lock had been gouged almost out of the door. “Beka!”

Yuri turned on his heel and ran across the shop and out through the back where Otabek was hacking ice off the doorstep with the blade of the shovel. “Beka,” he said. “Someone’s broken in.”

Otabek took Yuri’s sleeve and yanked him away from the door, raising the shovel. “Is he still in?” he said, voice low.

“Uh, no?” Yuri said. “Just left a huge mess.”

“Okay,” Otabek said, lowering his temporary weapon. He still went in first, holding Yuri back with an arm as Yuri tried to go past and point out the broken lamps.

“I fucking hate this,” Yuri said, stopping by the counter to watch Otabek try the front door and push the lock into place only to have it fall back out again. “I get robberies, but this is just...”

“Scare tactics,” Otabek supplied, coming back from the door.

“Stupid, I was going to say,” Yuri muttered. His palms itched and they were damp when he rubbed them against each other. He pulled the sleeves of his jumper over them.

“Spare bulbs?” Otabek asked, going past him into the office for the utility closet. The dusty overhead turned on in the office well enough, but revealed the mess of a smashed computer monitor and broken off keycaps from the keyboard everywhere. Wires had been torn out of the computer tower and the desk chair pushed over. The safe with the ledgers in it was untouched, and the utility closet still held the broom and stepladder and other cleaning supplies that hadn’t been disturbed.

Yuri went in after him, rummaging around in the cupboards until he found a few bulbs still in their packaging. He ripped the cardboard boxes open to give his hands something to do and to hide the tremor, looking around in dismay. Small damages, but all material things could be replaced. “Do we need to turn off the electricity or something?”

“Unplug the lamps,” Otabek said, carrying the stepladder to the dining area. He kicked broken glass aside and set the ladder down. “You climb, I’ll hold.”

Yuri was glad to have something to do and scurried up the few steps. The lamps were too old-fashioned to have plugs to take out so he ignored it and carefully screwed out the broken bulb bases, then replaced it with an intact one. The light came on and Yuri twitched in surprise.

“Fuck,” he gasped.

“You okay?” Otabek asked, placing his hand on Yuri’s calf.

“I hate this,” Yuri repeated. Otabek gave his leg a little rub before taking his hand away.

Yuri was startled again when there was a sound at the front door, and Otabek grabbed his leg again to keep him from tilting off the ladder. But it was only Georgi, bursting in with a cold-reddened face. “The lock’s broken!” he said, stopping short when he saw Yuri and Otabek. Otabek took his hand away again, this time off Yuri’s thigh.

“Yeah, I’m fucking aware,” Yuri said, angry at the unfairness of the whole situation. Both that the shop had been vandalised and it frightened him, and that Georgi was so early and caused Otabek to move his hand. And because it was the day before his birthday. He unscrewed another broken bulb and dropped it on the floor. He’d have to sweep it all up anyway.

“Why didn’t you call anyone?” Georgi said, taking his phone out.

“Just got in,” Yuri said, climbing down between Otabek’s arms. Otabek moved out of the way, eyes on Georgi, who ducked his head and looked away.

They replaced one more bulb because that’s how many unbroken ones there were, then Otabek started sweeping the floor. Georgi went back outside, but stood in clear view in front of the windows while talking on the phone. Yuri fetched a cloth to wipe the tables and the seats, but paused at the door of the office.

“I didn’t even notice that,” he said quietly. Someone had scratched the name from the envelopes on the door itself. “I don’t understand. Do you think it could just be a case of a mistaken identity?”

“Seems more like someone’s calling him out.” Otabek gestured at the name. “What’s your father’s name?”

Yuri shoved the door open so he didn’t have to look at the letters and grabbed a cloth. “I don’t fucking know,” he grunted and went to wipe the uncles’ booth first, finding the icons smashed too. Some of them still hung on the wall, but most were scattered across the seats in pieces. Otabek came to help him sweep up the mess and Georgi came back in.

“I told everyone,” he announced as if it was something he deserved applause for. “Which is what you should’ve done,” he added unnecessarily. “Good thing I was early.”

“Amazing,” Yuri snapped. “Help us out then. Grab the bin from the kitchen and bring it over so we can dump all the glass and other shit.”

Georgi opened his mouth to object, but relented under Otabek’s steady stare and Yuri’s angry scowl. Yuri climbed into the booth and carefully removed the rest of the icons off the wall, shaking loose glass and other dirt from them onto the floor where Otabek swept it up.

“It’s like being in a bad horror film,” Yuri muttered. “For months on end. Just little scares here and there, but no action.”

“Wouldn’t want to hurry to the end of a horror film,” Otabek replied, peering out onto the street. He was leaning on the broom, hovering over Yuri instead of working.

“Yeah,” Yuri sighed. It was his birthday tomorrow, a fact he hadn’t let anyone forget for the last two weeks. He’d been looking forwards to it for so long, hoping something would shift or change and make his life easier.

Georgi came back with the bin and waited expectantly by it as if he once again expected applause for doing the obvious. Otabek started dumping the debris into the bin while Yuri wiped the booth clean. As soon as he slid out, Georgi slipped in and sat there with the air of someone who felt they’d done their share.

“I’ll keep an eye out,” he volunteered.

Yuri caught Otabek’s eye but neither said anything. The front of the shop was almost clean, if not fixed up, by the time Nikolai made it there. He said nothing, not even when Georgi stood up and began to greet him, but made his way to Yuri and grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Are you all right?” Nikolai demanded. Georgi sat back down like a deflated balloon. It would’ve been amusing in any other situation.

“I’m fine, Grandpa,” Yuri said. “But look at what they’ve done to the shop!” He gestured around at the mess.

“What about the kitchen?” Grandpa was satisfied that Yuri was fine and walked past him towards the kitchen, but stopped as though he’d encountered a wall when he saw the crudely carved name on the office door.

“The kitchen is- Grandpa?” Yuri came after him. He’d never seen his grandfather with an expression like that. His face was white under the dim lights, eyes startled. Afraid.

“The- The what?” Grandpa said faintly. “The kitchen?”

“I don’t think they did much in the kitchen. The walk-in’s a different story. Are _you_ okay?” Yuri took Nikolai’s elbow. Otabek had stopped sweeping and was watching, as was Georgi. “Do you know that name?”

“Yes. He’s… gone,” Grandpa said and coughed. He leaned on Yuri so heavily that Yuri stumbled.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Yuri asked, but Grandpa didn’t seem to possess working legs any longer. Yuri guided him to sit on Uncle Sima’s stool in the kitchen.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Grandpa said hoarsely, but he shook as he sat down.

Then the bell rang and Viktor came in, taking off his gloves one finger at a time. A quick scowl crossed Otabek’s face at the entrant. Yuri felt his own scalp tighten as if he’d entered an electric field.

“I’m here,” Viktor said as though he was the solution to every problem.

“Are either of you going to actually help?” Yuri’s annoyance took the front seat over the strangeness of his grandfather’s reaction. He turned to glare at Viktor, who managed to look contrite and eager. Georgi was hanging at the counter, face pale in the dark.

“Of course we’re going to help, kitten,” Viktor soothed. “Just point us in the right direction!”

“Okay, go out through the back and throw yourselves in the bin!” Yuri pointed at the back door. “Saves me cleaning up all the fucking trash.”

“Yurochka,” Nikolai admonished. He looked more grim than usual, but his cheeks had regained their colour. “Let them help. I’ll see to the office.”

“Grandpa,” Yuri groused. “It’s not that I don’t want to _let_ them, it’s that they’re fucking useless in the first place!”

Nikolai got up and only wagged a finger at Yuri before going into the office and closing the door in his face. Viktor beamed at Yuri from over the counter. “Use me,” he said. Yuri hadn’t forgiven him.

“Fine,” Yuri snapped. “Beka, check the walk-in and the freezer. One of you take the broom and start sweeping.”

“All yours, Gosha,” Viktor said gracefully as Otabek held out the broom. “I shall concentrate on beautification.” He picked up the cloth and folded it over many times while Georgi started sweeping the floor in a desultory manner. “All this senseless violence,” Viktor lamented, making sweeping gestures over the counter with the cloth. “Speaking of senseless violence. Tabik, have you assaulted any helpless, innocent people lately?”

“Fuck off, Face,” Yuri said before Otabek had the chance to reply. “He’s busy here.”

“Oh, does the kitten speak for you?” Viktor asked over Yuri, which made Yuri reach over and smack Viktor on the arm.

“I do,” he said. “He works for me so fuck off.”

Viktor leaned his elbow on the counter and his face leaned into a smarmy grin. “I thought he worked for Uncle Kolya, Yurionok. Was I mistaken?”

“He works for the diner,” Yuri adjusted his stance, but didn’t back down. “Take your bullshit elsewhere.”

Otabek nodded to him and headed into the back. Yuri stayed by the cash register, having just found out it needed looking at too. It was empty, for one, and broken into, but it was also his eavesdropping station.

“So, Yura,” Viktor started.

“Shut up,” Yuri hissed and leaned towards the door. He’d heard his grandfather say something.

“...let my guard down,” were the words Yuri made out through the door. “I need to bring the plans forwards. Yes, I know. Whatever we have now will have to be enough. It must be him. Who else would know that name? _Theotokos_ , I will not lose my grandson to him too.”

“So, Yurasik,” Viktor cooed again, startling Yuri because he hadn’t noticed Viktor coming to stand right by him. “If it’s behind closed doors, it’s probably something you shouldn’t know.”

“Take your patronising ass back to your club,” Yuri snarled. Everything was behind closed doors for him. How could someone like Viktor understand when he was literally Uncle Yakov’s right arm and probably his left arm too. He had the privilege of knowing _everything_ while Yuri was supposed to remain ignorant of everything all his life.

“Is that a way to talk to the person who’s arranged a little birthday party surprise for you?” Viktor smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement.

“Yeah, it is, when your favours always come with a price.”

“I demand no bridge toll this time, Yurashenka,” Viktor said. “I promise.”

“What’s the surprise?” Yuri grunted despite loathing Viktor to the core.

“A second party. At the club.” Viktor pulled away, twirling the cloth in the air. “Ah, to be young again!”

Yuri stared after him with a sour taste in his mouth, but with bubbles of excitement beginning to pop in his chest. He hadn’t forgot Viktor had tried to sell this idea before, but only as a prize for taking part in his designs. He hadn’t forgot anything Viktor had done or tried.

He turned towards the office door, but all was quiet behind it, except for the sound of tidying up. Otabek was standing in the kitchen, by the walk-in door and looking at him. Yuri went to him, called over by the dark eyes.

“Take a look,” Otabek said and nodded his chin towards the walk-in.

Yuri opened the door to the familiar cold blast of air and an undesired trickle of smells and various liquids contaminating the shelves and the floor. Nothing else had been touched but the raw meat, which had been spread everywhere, effectively making everything unusable.

“Well,” Yuri said, closing the door. “At least Uncle Sima is going to kill someone for this.”

“Heard you with Face,” Otabek said.

“Uh, yeah?” Yuri felt guilty although he hadn’t agreed to anything or even initiated the conversation. Viktor was dancing around the dining area with the broom and Georgi was sitting in the booth, rolling his ring around.

“Am I invited to your second party?” Otabek asked, placing his hand lightly on the small of Yuri’s back.

Yuri snorted. “Sure, if it’s real,” he said.

“Yurochka,” Grandpa called just then, and Yuri drew away from Otabek. “How is the walk-in?”

“Trashed,” Yuri said.

Grandpa looked at Otabek over Yuri’s shoulder, then shook his head. “What did you say about the walk-in?”

Yuri glanced at Otabek too, but he was just standing there, face passive. “It’s trashed,” he repeated. “Everything’s gotta go. And we just had deliveries yesterday. Such a fucking waste.”

Grandpa agreed with a grunt, then patted Yuri on the shoulder. “But not your problem. Go to school.”

“Okay, but,” Yuri leaned closer to Nikolai, lowering his voice. “What’s the name on the door? You know who it is. I’ve seen it before too.”

Yuri felt the alarm go through his grandfather, but it stopped short of coming out through his voice, except as extra tightness. “It’s nobody. Where do you know it from?”

“Um, an envelope was delivered here once with that name and then while I was grounded, there was another at home,” Yuri explained. Nikolai had grabbed his upper arm, squeezing hard through the layers of t-shirt and hoodie. “Grandpa?”

“What did the letter say?” Grandpa asked slowly, breathing in pained bursts through his nose.

“It was just the envelope,” Yuri said, subdued. “I think I have the second one at home.”

Grandpa stopped breathing long enough for Yuri to think he was about the pass out. Then he coughed. “School,” he said. “Otabek. Take Yurochka to school. Yura, come back immediately after school.”

“Okay?” Yuri said as his grandfather all but shoved him towards the office to pick up his coat and backpack.

Yuri put on his coat and left through the back like always, Otabek behind him. They left behind a silence, with Viktor having stopped dancing around and Georgi staring in endless worry. Grandpa hadn’t looked up, and his hands had been curled up into fists.

“You didn’t tell your Grandpa about the letters before today,” Otabek said as they walked.

“No,” Yuri admitted, glancing at him. “Did you see how he reacted? I thought he was having a heart attack. It must be someone he knows, then.”

“No doubt,” Otabek agreed.

“And it’s something I’m not allowed to know,” Yuri continued, embittered, looking up at the sky which was falling light already. There weren’t a lot of open spaces around so the sky above remained rectangular for most of the walk to the metro. Yuri didn’t remember any other sky. Of course, he’d been to parks and even outside of Moscow’s urban sprawl and knew the sky reached from horizon to horizon, but this was the kind of sky he associated with home: a sky propped up with concrete walls on all sides.

A car passed by, driving close to the curb. Otabek drew Yuri away from the edge, then briefly held him against his side. It brought Yuri down from the skies and to his situation on ground-level, balanced between unfairness and growing self-realisation.

“You’d tell me if you knew something, right?” Yuri said quietly.

“Yeah,” Otabek replied, letting go of Yuri. “You think they’d tell a newcomer like me anything?”

“They’d probably tell you sooner than me,” Yuri muttered. “Wouldn’t I be of more help if I knew _something?_ I know Grandpa’s been worried about something for ages, but he won’t say what.” He didn’t need or expect Otabek to reply, it was just nice that someone _listened._ Even if it made him feel disloyal towards Mila. She’d tried her best since Mama died. She was the only one now who knew some things about Yuri that even Yuri hesitated to admit.

But Yuri had found something else in Otabek. Not quite like a friend, not quite like anything else either. Something, somebody, who was between all things. Not yet quite the first boyfriend as which Mila had already named him, but as far as Yuri knew, not that far from it either.

“Look after Grandpa, okay?” Yuri said while they waited for the metro. “He’s gonna try and overwork, but his back’s shit and he’s just gonna hurt himself.” Yuri chewed on his lip. “Try not to kill Vitya. I mean, I wouldn’t mind, but Grandpa probably would. Although dunno _why_.”

Otabek snorted softly. He nudged Yuri and offered him his tube of chapstick. Yuri coated his lips and handed it back.

“This just had to happen today, didn’t it?” Yuri continued. “Whoever this clown is has some really bad timing. Or do you think it’s on purpose?” Yuri smacked his lips together in thought. “Do you think it’s got something to do with my mother?” he asked quietly. Otabek wouldn’t know, but having him listen was reassuring. “But why-” Yuri’s words were cut off by the howl of the train arriving, and afterwards he didn’t feel like speaking anymore.


	15. Saturday, 1st of March ONE

“You ready?”

Yuri had come home and showered after spending the morning making pastries at the shop like every Saturday. He had put on his new tiger-striped pants and a clean hoodie. He’d been fiddling with his wet hair, but decided to leave it as-is. He wasn’t going back to work; it didn’t need to be tied back.

“I’m ready,” he said. “Why? Are you bored of waiting?”

“Yeah,” Otabek replied, appearing in the doorway of Yuri’s room. Potya got up and stretched, walking across the bed where she’d been dozing to greet Otabek. He let her sniff his fingers and rub against the back of his hand, then gestured with his head towards the door.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Yuri agreed and ran his hands through his hair, giving briefly into the enjoyment of being in the centre of Otabek’s attention. They were in private, and he didn’t have to shy away from Otabek’s eyes. Or the hand that rose to brush against his cheek although it wasn’t the caress Yuri had expected.

Otabek rolled his fingers together. “Glitter?”

“Shimmer lotion,” Yuri corrected.

“Looks good.”

Yuri felt like unpopped popcorn, simmering in oil and heat, excited even for the party at Grandpa’s diner. “Feels good.” He bent to kiss Potya on the forehead, but had to forgo giving her a cuddle in order to have his black shirt remain as free of white cat hair as possible. “I’ll be home late,” he whispered her, then grinned up at Otabek.

Otabek hid his smile somewhere in his mouth and cheeks, which only twitched a little. He grabbed his coat and shrugged it on. Yuri reached up to touch the fur collar and ran his fingers up against the back of Otabek’s head.

“Beka, did you get me a present?”

“Yeah,” Otabek said.

“Can I have it?”

“Not yet.”

Yuri dropped his hand. “Why not? What is it?”

“You’ll see.”

Yuri pulled on his boots. He’d cleaned and shined them earlier. When he had his coat on too, he caught Otabek’s hand. “Is it Vitya’s head on a platter?”

“No.”

“Is it… Vitya’s head in a carrier bag?”

Otabek snorted.

“Bye, Potyanka!” Yuri called out as they left. She’d come to see them off. Yuri felt sorry he couldn’t take her to the shop. “But is it hand wraps or something else to do with boxing?”

“No.”

“A hairclip?”

“What? No.”

They trotted down the stairs and into the open air. Half of the sky was eggshell blue and the other half pink with the clouds of a low-pressure system coming in. The streets were already dark. Yuri felt like he might pop at any moment.

“I hope I’ll feel different after,” he said, skipping ahead. “I hope something changes. Did it for you?”

“When I turned 18? No.”

Yuri whirled around, walking backwards to see Otabek’s face. “Why not?”

Otabek shrugged, making the fur collar move like it was alive. “I was in prison.”

_Sometimes I feel like I am too_ , Yuri thought and faced forwards again. He couldn’t say that to anyone who’d actually been imprisoned. He couldn’t explain how constricted he felt to people who’d lived in actual cells. He hoped he’d feel less like that after tonight. He hoped he’d feel less like a _child_.

“Beka,” he said. “Is it something cool?”

“Hope so.”

“Why can’t I have it now?”

Otabek’s footsteps ceased so Yuri swung around. “Fine,” Otabek said.

“Really?” Yuri’s breath hitched in surprise.

Otabek dug in his jeans pocket and took Yuri’s hand, placing a delicate charm bracelet onto Yuri’s palm. The bracelet was warm from having been in Otabek’s pocket.

“You have charms on your boots and on the zippers of your backpack,” Otabek said. “And rhinestones on your phone. Thought you might like more.”

Yuri looked at the bracelet, prodding the tiny charms apart with his little finger. Nine planets and a spaceship.

“Your favourite is Cosmonautics Day,” Otabek added quietly.

Yuri looked mutely up at Otabek, feeling like he’d swallowed his tongue.

“Want me to-” Otabek gestured at the bracelet.

“Yeah.” Yuri handed the bracelet back and pulled the sleeve of his coat up for Otabek to hang the bracelet around his wrist. “Why didn’t you want to give this to me earlier?”

“People are gonna see it and ask where it’s from.” Otabek held Yuri’s hand a short while more, brushing his fingers against the scars across Yuri’s palm. “Figured you probably didn’t wanna explain.”

“You’re right,” Yuri admitted. “I’ll say I got it for myself.”

“Okay,” Otabek said. He smiled just as the first few soft flakes of snow floated down.

“I’m so over this winter,” Yuri said, but they stood there a little longer, tilting their faces up to the gentle snowfall, before continuing towards the shop.

They shared one last look just outside the pond of light that was created by the diner being lit up. Someone had hung a garland of Christmas lights across the windows on the outside, and Yuri snorted with fond laughter when he saw the decorations inside. Paper streamers stretched across the ceiling, attached to the lamps, and gold balloons bobbed in the draft when Yuri opened the front door. Food and drink was piled high on the counter, and it still smelled like the baking they’d done that morning. It was hot and bright inside.

“Yurochka!” Grandpa said and got up from the corner booth. Some signs of the break-in the day before were still there, like the missing icons on the wall and the name carved into the office door. Everyone else—Yakov, Lilia, Mila, Viktor, Georgi, Anya, Granny Lyusenka, but not Uncle Sima—stood up with him and cheered a loud _Happy birthday_.

Grandpa came to hug Yuri even before Yuri had his coat off. He grabbed Yuri’s ears and tugged on both of them, but only upwards. “Grow tall,” Grandpa said.

“That’s for children,” Yuri protested, but with a laugh.

“Let me have your coat before you just leave it on the floor,” Grandpa said gruffly.

Yuri relinquished his outer clothes to his shiny-eyed grandfather and exchanged a brief glance with Otabek. Granny Lyusenka, tiny and wiry, had picked up a cat plushie almost as big as her with a red bow around the toy’s neck. Yuri had to bend his knees a little to let her pinch his ear and give him a quick, hard hug, smelling like lavender fabric softener.

“Happy birthday, boy,” she said with a cackle and pushed the toy into his arms.

“Thanks, Granny. I’m 18,” Yuri said in the hope that one year soon she’d stop giving him such toys.

“And whereabouts in Mongolia are you, young man?” Granny asked, peering up at Otabek who was standing slightly off to the side.

“Kazakhstan,” Otabek corrected her.

“The Kazakh SSR!” Granny said. “You used to belong to us.”

“Not for a long time now,” Otabek said calmly.

“And you’re here to steal our women?” Granny inquisited.

“Granny!” Yuri muttered, placing the plushie cat down in one of the booths. It was big enough to look like an extra guest.

“Just here to work,” Otabek said.

“Good,” Granny said and pointedly walked into Otabek with her arms wide, catching him into a hug as well. She was bent and tough, and Otabek patted her back carefully.

As Otabek headed to put his coat away into the office, Granny Lyusenka leaned towards Yuri in a conspiratorial manner. “Do you know why you always hug your enemies? Because you need to find out what size grave to dig ‘em!” She laughed and gave Yuri’s ear another pinch before tottering off to fetch a drink.

“Yurchik,” Uncle Yasha called and gestured him over to the last booth. Aunt Lilia had sat back down, but Yakov and Viktor stood by, and Yuri spied a gift-wrapped box on the table. Georgi and Anya were in the booth next to them, but Yuri passed them for the moment. Uncle Sima was sitting behind the counter with his own bottle of vodka.

“Please don’t pull on my ears,” Yuri said, lifting his hands to cover his ears as he got close.

“Just this,” Viktor said and made an unnecessary flourish with his hand, revealing a coin. “Look what I found in there. It’s for you.” He dropped the 5₽ coin into Yuri’s hand. “Happy birthday, Yurionok.”

“Go fuck yourself, Vityok,” Yuri replied and slipped the coin into the breast pocket of Viktor’s bright white dress shirt. Viktor laughed and tried to pat him on the head, but Yuri dodged him.

“I actually got you this,” Viktor said, bringing out a velvet box with his other hand. “Misdirection!” He waggled his eyebrows, contorting his face into the most ridiculous grin.

Yuri took the box carefully, half expecting Viktor to pull it back at the last minute. The black lid was velvety on the outside, and the hinge was stiff. It revealed a big, golden ring with a black round stone set in the middle. The stone looked oily in the light, reflecting blues and purples and greens. Yuri snapped his eyes up at Viktor.

“Do you like it?” Viktor had put his hands on his cheeks, barely holding back his excitement. “I picked it out myself. What do you think?”

Yuri swallowed. His gaze went to his grandfather next, taking in the furious frown. Uncle Yasha wore an almost similar expression.

“Vitya,” Uncle Yasha said. “That’s inappropriate.”

“It’s just a _ring_ ,” Viktor argued. “And he so wants one.”

Yuri took the ring out despite Grandpa’s face and tried it on. He knew it meant nothing; it was just another condescending gesture from Viktor. But for a moment he wore it and imagined he had everything he wanted. Then he slipped it off and put it in his pocket.

“Thanks, Vitya,” he said flatly.

Uncle Yasha pushed Viktor into the booth and picked up the present Yuri had originally been heading towards. “Lilinka and I got you this.”

“It’s what every young man always needs,” Aunt Lilia added. Viktor lit her cigarette for her.

“Open it!” Mila had turned to kneel on the booth seat, leaning over.

Uncle Yasha nodded and sat next to Lilia. Yuri put the present down and tried to unwrap it neatly, to preserve the colourful balloon paper, but got frustrated halfway through and tore it instead.

“Sheets?” He lifted out the five plastic-wrapped sets. Mila burst out laughing.

“Yes,” Aunt Lilia said, meeting Yuri’s gaze. “When have you or Kolya last bought new sheets?”

“Oh, um,” Yuri said, realising he couldn’t remember ever buying sheets. They’d just always appeared. He glanced at Grandpa, who looked similarly startled, bringing over a tray of glasses and vodka. Mila laughed even harder and Anya giggled behind her hand.

“Hardly ever see them in your laundry, either!” Granny Lyusenka added, and Grandpa harrumphed, placing the tray down so hard the glasses clanked.

“Thank you, Aunt Lilia, Uncle Yasha,” Yuri said. He leaned in to hug Uncle Yasha, but Aunt Lilia waved him away when it was her turn.

“No need for a show of affection,” she said.

“My turn!” Mila declared and whipped out her gift, a carrier bag from the one of the stores they’d visited. “Put it on. Right now.”

Yuri recognised the sparkly black fabric and the big rhinestone clasp to close off the cut-out in the back. “Milya!” he said, closing the bag quickly.

“Put it on!” She clapped her hands, but no one else joined in so she dropped her hands and pouted. “Fine.”

“This is from us.” Georgi got up with a sizable box, wrapped in bright white and pink striped paper and many bows. “Anya decorated, I picked the contents,” he clarified. “So it’s nothing girly.”

“Oh yeah, who’d want _that?_ ” Mila was standing on the booth seat to see over Georgi.

The paper and bows revealed a box of brand-new black boxing gloves. Yuri’s name was embroidered onto the wrist of both of them. “Thanks, Gosha! Thanks, Anya!” Yuri grinned. “These are so cool!”

Georgi slapped him on the shoulder and Anya got up to hug him. “You’re so grown! Happy birthday!” she said.

“Hey, Beka.” Yuri turned to show his new gloves to Otabek. “Look.”

Otabek nodded, but remained withdrawn. Mila took Yuri by the shoulders and walked him into the office to put on his new shirt. Uncle Sima slammed down another shot of vodka and slipped an envelope into Yuri’s hand as he went past.

“Congrats, kid,” he muttered.

“Thank-” Yuri started, but Sima grunted and turned away.

“True to form,” Mila commented when she’d closed the office door. Yuri opened the envelope and found 20 rubles and a blank card that said _birthday_ in block letters.

“Never surprises,” he agreed with a grin, pocketing both the money and the card. He had a collection of similar cards he’d received from Uncle Sima over the years. It was the same every year, without fail, on everyone’s birthday. He always remembered, but never changed.

“And now my thing.” Mila pulled the shirt out of the carrier bag.

“I told you I can’t have this shirt,” Yuri hissed. “Why’d you get it?”

“Because I saw how much you liked it,” she said. “And since it’s a gift, no one will think less of you for wearing it. You didn’t get it for yourself, after all.”

“I guess,” Yuri admitted, shimmying out of his hoodie and t-shirt. And he did really want to wear it. In front of Otabek.

“What’s this?” Mila caught his hand, pulling on the bracelet. “You didn’t get this either.”

Yuri pulled his hand free. “Beka gave it to me, but don’t tell anyone.”

Mila mimed zipping up her mouth, then helped Yuri close the rhinestone clasp. “You look fantastic, Yurochka,” she said, brushing his hair back, then quickly pinched his ear. “Grow taller!”

“Fuck off!” Yuri pushed her away, then pulled her back to give her a hug. “You look great too, granny.” Her hair was fluffy and curly around her heart-shaped face, and she’d worn shiny black leggings with a loose knit shirt that fell off one shoulder.

“Toasts!” Grandpa’s voice thundered over the murmur of the others’ voices.

“Toasts!” Mila repeated and pulled Yuri out. “Sorry, I wanted to see him wearing the shirt I got him,” she explained and made him twirl around in the middle of the floor. Viktor and Granny Lyusenka cheered. Grandpa smiled a wan smile, then handed them both shot glasses.

It took almost half an hour for everyone to toast Yuri. Uncle Sima only raised his glass, Anya spoke very softly under Georgi’s worshipful and protective gaze, and Grandpa had to wipe away more tears. Most importantly, Yuri felt, Otabek didn’t take his eyes off him the whole time.


	16. Saturday, 1st of March TWO

“Look at all this,” Grandpa said. “Look at everything we have.” Yakov grunted in appreciation and even Aunt Lilia smiled like a papercut. Every horizontal surface was filled with food and drink. “This is what I’ll want to remember before death.”

They clinked glasses and drank a shot of vodka each.

“We made it,” Grandpa said. “We starved in the north. We starved again during the 90s. My back doesn’t work anymore, my eyes are going, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not starving now. My family or friends aren’t starving. I can be a thief of leisure.” He even laughed a little at that as did Yakov.

Yuri snuggled closer to his grandfather in the booth, feeling hazy and warm and enveloped by a cosy blur of noise and comfort. Some of it was the vodka, some of it was the party. Everyone seemed happy and relaxed.

“The young ones can work now,” Yakov agreed. “I can’t keep up with all the internets things and phones that don’t even have buttons or a dial. Someone’s been trying to kill me for most of my life, the government, the cykas, other bosses. I’m ready to die of natural causes.”

It made Viktor laugh. “Kill the old fools with kindness!” he beamed, raising his glass. “My favourite!” He was red in the face from alcohol consumption, and Yuri felt a fondness for him at that moment. He was familiar. He’d always been there. Practically family.

“It’s time,” Grandpa said.

“It really is,” Uncle Yasha agreed. “I’m ready to retire.”

“Retirement!” Grandpa said and lifted his glass again after having filled it.

“You old fools,” Aunt Lilia said fondly, raising her glass as well.

“To young fools who survived to become old foods,” Yakov agreed. They drank and lowered their glasses simultaneously, then Grandpa held both his hands over the table, folding all other fingers down except the index and middle fingers.

“Grandpa,” Yuri groaned muzzily.

“It’s your favourite game, Yurochka, what’s a few games on your birthday?” Grandpa said. Yakov guffawed and placed his hands in a similar position. Aunt Lilia followed, and then Viktor when Yakov elbowed him.

“It’s _your_ favourite game,” Yuri muttered, refusing to join in.

“Milushka!” Grandpa called and Mila came over, grinning when she saw their hands.

“I’m in!” she said and shoved herself into the booth, holding out her hands as well. “Yura, you have to play.”

“For good luck!” Viktor added.

“It’s just counting to four over and over again,” Yuri protested. “It’s stupid.” Georgi and Anya were peering at them from the other booth. Otabek was standing by the counter, also looking. Granny Lyusenka was asleep.

“And you can’t count to four?” Grandpa needled. “Yurochka. Play with your old grandpa. It might be the last time.”

Yuri groaned again, but then held out his hands, joining the circle. It was a silly and simple children’s game, one he’d heard his grandfather and Yakov and other prisoners had often played for lack of other amusement. It had been Yuri’s favourite game when he’d been five. Now it was just painfully ridiculous, only slightly less so when everybody was drunk.

“You start, Yurochka,” Yakov instructed. “It’s your day.”

Yuri took one hand out and began dutifully counting, tapping each finger as he went over them, starting with his own two. “Cheeki breeki palchik vykin.” By the second word everyone had joined in to chant the words, and the finger corresponding to the last word was folded away by whoever it landed on.

It went faster and faster and Yuri tapped over old knuckles with faded tattoos, and younger ones with rings on, while everyone chanted and laughed, louder and louder. He counted out his own fingers in two rounds, but kept going until only one finger was up, belonging to Nikolai.

“Losers drink, winner continues!” Yakov declared loudly and grabbed the vodka, pouring generously into everyone’s glasses and over the table. Everyone drank, including Yuri who ended up coughing, but then held up his fingers with everyone else for his Grandpa to do the counting.

The noise kept going up and the rounds kept going faster and Yuri was sure there were mistakes, but he couldn’t concentrate on counting. After the fourth round and too many shots of vodka in a very short time, he got up and staggered towards the kitchen, nodding at Uncle Sima on the way who was by the counter, drinking in silence. He went through the kitchen and pushed the back door open to get into the cold, fresh air.

It was still snowing. The kind of big, slow flakes that looked like bits of duck down. There was no wind, and the air was considerably warmer than it’d been just a few days ago. It was the first of March, after all. Otabek was standing out there, by the bins, and at first Yuri thought he was smoking, but he was just trying to catch snowflakes onto his tongue.

“Beka,” Yuri said and laughed, so warm from the vodka and the company that he didn’t feel the cold at all. He came forwards, spreading his arms, enjoying the whisper of snow against his bare back and face and twirled in the middle, sticking out his tongue to catch snowflakes too. He was dizzy, but not nauseated, and the soft snow made the small light above the door break into flower-like fragments of brightness.

His twirls came to an end in a snowdrift, but even that didn’t make him cold. He laughed more when he saw Otabek’s perturbed frown, but accepted his help in getting up.

“You’ll get a cold,” Otabek said, slapping snow off Yuri’s clothes, and only managing to make more of it melt on his skin.

“I won’t,” Yuri insisted and looped his arms around Otabek’s shoulders. No, he wasn’t cold and he didn’t feel the snow, but he felt Otabek’s hand on the bare skin of his back, burning. “Can’t I just roll around in the snow a bit more?”

Otabek’s balance proved to be a greater force than Yuri’s momentum. His attempt to pull Otabek down with him ended only in them stepping closer to each other in an awkward dance. Otabek’s lips were cold and refreshing when they met Yuri’s, and Yuri drank them in like a can of orange soda. The taste was of familiar chapstick and underlying alcohol and apples.

Snowfall always had the effect of dampening noise. What was carried to Yuri’s ears was the distant rumble of traffic, the closer rumble of bar patrons and the faint noise of celebration from inside the restaurant. Laid over it all was his breathing, loud and choppy, as he watched snowflakes settle on Otabek’s dark lashes and brows. He was so close he could see the unique form of each snow crystal.

He ducked forwards and closed his eyes when their mouths made contact anew. No longer cold. A warm, wet tongue tip against his. A hand following the curve of his spine, another heavy on his hip. Chilly kisses from the snow to go with the hot applecider ones from Otabek.

They came apart again, but Otabek rested his forehead against Yuri’s and nuzzled their noses together. Yuri’s response was a choked giggle, which surprised them both enough to make them pull back.

“No, it was nice,” Yuri whispered shakily, curling his hands tighter around Otabek’s shoulders. He reached forwards to repeat the nuzzle. It turned into a kiss, and Yuri’s body pulsed with the ringing of his heart, loud and hard enough for Otabek to sense too, he was sure.

The kiss terminated with another nuzzle, and this time also with Otabek squeezing Yuri hard against himself. “Okay,” he said in a low voice and let his arms drop.

Yuri refused to let go. “Why?”

“Who do you want to walk in on us?”

Yuri took a guilty step backwards. “No one,” he muttered. The air felt colder now, especially on his lips. He could feel a flake land on his lower lip and melt right away, sending a shiver through him. His palms ached and were sweaty.

“You look like you’ve been kissed,” Otabek said.

“I wanna go home with you,” Yuri replied.

“Okay,” Otabek said. He raised his hand as if to tough Yuri again, but he back door shifted on its hinges and Mila came out, followed by Uncle Sima. She was already lighting her cigarette.

Yuri ducked his head and rushed in past them. Mila called after him but he ignored her and went to grab his coat. Otabek followed him, using his sleeve to rub at his face. The action left a faint shimmer on the sleeve, and Yuri was briefly terrified.

“Yurochka, what’s wrong?” Grandpa asked.

“I’m tired.” Yuri swallowed his terror and put his coat on. “I’m going home.”

“But we’re still celebrating, Yurochka,” Grandpa said. Everyone raised their glasses. “And I don’t want you to be alone.”

“I won’t be,” Yuri hurried to explain. “Beka, I mean Otabek, is taking me back. That’s okay, right?”

Grandpa grumbled but he was very drunk. “Fine, fine. Go home, spend time with your cat. Otabek.”

“I know, boss,” Otabek said. “Didn’t drink much.”

“Good boy,” Grandpa said. “Go on, then.”

Yuri felt a spark of enrage, which was then put out by a wave of terrifying excitement when Otabek came to stand by him. That, in turn, was swallowed by a warmth that was half-vodka, half affection, and Yuri leaned in to kiss his grandfather on the cheek.

“Don’t bother cleaning tonight, I’ll do it tomorrow,” Yuri promised. “Night, Grandpa. Night, everyone.”

“Good night,” Grandpa replied, attempting appear more sober than he was. Yuri huffed in exasperation.

Uncle Yasha reached over to pat him on the shoulder, just as drunk, and Aunt Lilia gave him a small smile, followed by a sharp look at Otabek, which Yuri didn’t want to stay and interpret. Georgi and Anya had already left, and Granny Lyusenka was asleep in the next booth. Yuri grabbed the big cat plushie but left his other presents behind. He’d collect them tomorrow.

“It’s for Potya,” he told Otabek when they left the shop.

“Didn’t ask,” Otabek said.

“Yeah, but you were looking,” Yuri argued.

“Wasn’t looking at the toy,” Otabek said, and Yuri giggled again, then buried his face into the plushie, horrified that he’d made a sound like that.

Around the corner they came face to face with an unpleasant surprise.

“There you are,” Viktor greeted them. He rubbed his leather-gloved hands together. “Good thing you decided to go home early.”

Yuri stared at him through his haze of alcohol and expectations. “What the fuck do you want?”

“Kitten!” Viktor put his hands to his heart. “Your party! Your _real_ party? I told you it was happening. How could you forget?”

Yuri couldn’t say the reason for his forgetfulness even though he was stood right there next to him. He side-eyed Otabek, conflicted between the party he’d wanted before and the newly discovered physical intimacy he wanted now. Otabek was giving Viktor the most remarkable flat-out unimpressed look.

“Supposed to take him home,” Otabek said.

“Well, we don’t need you to be able to party, do we, Yuranechka?”

“He’s coming,” Yuri said and grasped Otabek’s sleeve. “You’re coming.”

“Oh, fine.” Viktor turned on his heels. “Come on, my car’s parked this way.”

Otabek held Yuri back, raising his eyebrows, but Yuri’s throat was too full of conflicts. “I want a party,” he whispered. “It’s probably dumb because it’s fucking Fuckface, but I want to see it. Then we…” He trailed off, looking at Otabek’s lips.

Otabek rolled his eyes and nodded, then bent down and scooped up a handful of snow, which he aimed and let loose at Viktor. It hit him in the back of the head with a satisfying sploosh, and Yuri burst out laughing in surprise.

“Two against one?” Viktor turned, hand on the back of his head, but moved quickly to make a snowball of his own from the snow on top of a car. It didn’t hit anything or anyone because both Yuri and Otabek ducked away, Yuri behind a car and Otabek towards Viktor.

Yuri’s snowballs also failed to connect with anything of importance, but he replaced quality with quantity, showering half-formed balls at Viktor as fast as he could until his hands were frozen and his sleeves wet. The plushie also suffered in the process. Viktor also gave up on making actual snowballs as Otabek came at him and instead showered Otabek with loose snow, dodging him on surprisingly limber feet.

“I know it was you!” Viktor taunted Otabek. “Yurchik wouldn’t be able to hit the side of the Kremlin right now even if he tried.”

Yuri proved him absolutely right by throwing a sloppy snowball right between them and into the window of a car. He dropped the giant cat toy and grabbed handfuls of snow and charged both of them, attempting to slam the snow into their faces, but Otabek caught him midstride and tilted him to the ground, where Viktor rather gently shoved snow into the back of his coat.

“Unfair!” Yuri cried, but while hiccuping from laughter. Despite the snow and his freezing fingers, his cheeks were flaming hot and he wasn’t cold at all. “Beka, how could you?” He laughed and let Otabek haul him up and try to slap the snow off his coat.

“All right,” Viktor raised his voice, swiping snow off his gloves. “We’re all adults and new adults here.” He took his keys from his pocket and tossed them at Otabek who caught them reflexively. “You drive.”

“Don’t know where we’re going,” Otabek said. He was still grasping Yuri’s arm with his other hand for which Yuri was a little glad because he needed something to lean against.

“I do. I’ll tell you when to turn the wheel.” Viktor clapped his hands together. “Let’s go.”

Yuri dashed back on uneven feet and uneven ground to collect his plushie. “Oh, no,” he said, laughter still in the back of his throat, shaking snow from its white fur. As he turned to show Otabek he’d collected his present, a set of car lights came on. They weren’t directly aimed at Yuri but he was caught at the edge of them. He froze.

The car’s doors opened and three men stepped out. Yuri saw only three looming shapes beyond the light in his eyes and grasped the toy tighter, heart quickening. His breath shortened to gasps and the cold came in a wave. The footsteps of the men across the street sounded deafening.

“Is that Yuri Plisetsky? Nikolai Sidorovich’s grandson?” one of the men asked. They stopped in front of Yuri, blocking the light. The man who’d spoken wore a long coat similar to Viktor’s and a suit underneath. The rings on his fingers flashed as he raised his hands to light a cigarette. Yuri smelled the lighter fluid and then the cigarette smoke, but his feet refused to move.

“Can I help you?” Viktor said, stepping into the lights as well. Yuri felt a hand on his back—Otabek—but wasn’t able to respond to it.

“I heard it’s your birthday,” the man said. The two other men were dressed more casually and flanked the one in the middle like statues. The man exhaled smoke, and Yuri found his eyes burning. He was afraid to blink. “Is your grandfather inside?”

“Mm?” Yuri managed a sound.

“I’m an old… friend and business partner,” the man said. He smiled, and Yuri registered white teeth flashing in the dark. He reached his free hand forwards, and Yuri knew there was something he was supposed to do when that happened, but before he remembered what it was, Otabek grasped the man’s hand and bent it down. Both of the bodyguards reached into their jackets.

“Tabik,” Viktor said. Otabek let go of the man’s hand.

“Ah, my bad,” the man said. “It was nice to finally meet you, Yuri. You do look just like your mother.”

The lights turned off, and the man, along with his bodyguards, stepped around the three of them, leaving behind the stench of cigarette smoke. Viktor got out his phone and dialled. Yuri stared into the dark, afterimages flashing in his eyes as he blinked compulsively. He thought there’d be tears of strain, but he couldn’t feel anything.

“You okay?” Otabek asked as Viktor crossed the street in front of them, talking into his phone.

“Yeah,” Yuri said, although his voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well, or the other end of a tin can telephone. “You?”

“Fine,” Otabek replied, giving Yuri a look, up and down, as if to make sure he really was in one piece. He aimed the keyfob at the street, pressing the button. A ridiculously sparkly silver Merc responded to the call with a flash of its lights. “Get in the car so you don’t get cold.”

“I’m not cold,” Yuri said automatically. He couldn’t even feel his hands.

“You’re wet,” Otabek pointed out.

“Such care.” Viktor swooned by the open door of his car. “Get in, Yurionok.” He’d opened the back door and waited for Otabek to bring Yuri over and push him into the car. Otabek took the driver’s seat.

“Automatic,” Otabek muttered with disdain, jostling the gearshift as he settled in. He had to move the seat closer on account of being shorter than Viktor, and as he adjusted the rearview mirror he caught Yuri’s eyes in it. Yuri sunk into the seat, still holding the slightly worse-for-wear cat plushie tightly against his chest.

“Kitten, are you all right?” Viktor asked.

“Fine,” Yuri said.

“Then _I’m_ hurt,” Viktor whinged. “You haven’t worn the ring I got you.”

“Why are you such a child?” Yuri muttered, his annoyance releasing him from the spell of the lights. He fished the blingy ring out of his pocket, almost falling over as Otabek took a turn with the tail of the car flicking out.

“Seat belts,” Otabek said.

Viktor flapped his hand at Otabek. “Mind your own business.”

“Where are we going?” Otabek asked.

“Just get on the highway,” Viktor said.

Yuri had pulled the seat belt around himself. “Here’s your fucking ring,” he said, voice shaking only minimally, and held the looped between his forefinger and thumb.

“Put it on,” Viktor encouraged. “You’re an adult now. You can join us at the table and you should have a ring for it.”

Yuri fit the finger on his middle finger and held it up at Viktor. “Grandpa is never gonna to let me at the table, Face,” he said. “So your gift’s useless.”

“Uncle Kolya isn’t going to be in charge of everything forever, kitten,” Viktor said and leaned heavily into Yuri’s side as Otabek took another turn at speed. “And he isn’t the only one whose table you can sit at. You’re welcome at mine.”

“You have a table?” Yuri asked, half derisive, half surprised. Viktor’s smile was slow and wide.

“I have many tables!” he said. “And tonight you can sit at any of them or all of them, whatever you like.”

Yuri swallowed the fright that he’d sorely underestimated Viktor because he was so stupidly ridiculous and sunk down a bit in relief. “Oh. You’re so full of shit.”

“Am I?” Viktor leaned his elbow against the bevel of the window and put his face against his knuckles, squishing his cheek so his smile was even more crooked. “I think I’m inconceivable.”

“You’re in-conceited,” Yuri muttered.

“Where now?” Otabek asked from the front seat, resting his hand on the useless gearshift. The car, an actually modern one, was already doing most of the driving by itself with cruise control on the highway. Yuri took in the silence and smooth ride while as Viktor leaned between the front seats to tap an address into the built-in GPS. It gave him a second to recover, although the ill feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn’t dispelled.

The ring was heavy and slightly uncomfortable around his finger. It was bulky and the inset dark crystal barely reflected any of the lights that went whooshing by as the car drove on. Yuri saw the row of rings that’d flashed on the man’s knuckles in his mind and squeezed his hand into a fist so the ring bit into his skin. He hated himself for freezing like that. He hated Viktor for the ring and everything he’d just said.

The ring was nothing but a gesture of disrespect. Maybe not even that. The idiot could’ve just been playing games he knew he couldn’t win, but also didn’t care about the end result because it didn’t touch him at all. But whatever the game, it touched Yuri because Viktor was trying to make him the pawn. Or buy his loyalty.

Yuri could play along for a little bit.

“Now where were we, my kitten?” Viktor said, arranging himself and his greatcoat back into the backseat. The car swerved from side to side and Viktor’s head thudded against the window. “Tabik, a little care, please,” he said in a sharper tone. Yuri snorted. Otabek had definitely done it on purpose.

“Stop calling me kitten, Face,” Yuri said.

“Stop calling me Face, kitten,” Viktor said.

Yuri glared at Viktor while Viktor gave him a thoughtful but smug look. Then he smiled again, mouth stretching but eyes unmoving. It would’ve been monstrous if Yuri hadn’t been used to Viktor’s overtly animated face where emotions rarely reached his eyes.

“I’m right,” Viktor said. “They’re going to die eventually, you know. The uncles. They’re old and we’re next in line. Well, I am. You’re not. Yet.” He reached over and touched Yuri’s hair idly, to which Yuri responded by slapping his hand away.

“They’re not dead yet,” Yuri muttered.

“They will be.”

“Probably an early grave because of you,” Yuri said, raising his voice.

“No, how can you say that?” Viktor looked mock-affronted. “It’s only natural their reign will end. All I’m offering is an option for you to join me when that day comes.”

The car made a little dip over the centre line, causing a shift in the noise of the tyres and a few honked protests from other cars, but Otabek said nothing. Yuri stared at the back of Otabek’s seat and his hand on the gearshift. His fingers were bare. Yuri wore a ring.

The ring didn’t fit him well, but it was a good-looking piece of jewellery. It was heavy and would hurt like a bitch if he punched someone in the face with it. But it was on the same hand as the charm bracelet Otabek had given him, and as Yuri looked at his hand, relaxed over the top of the plushie, the little Saturn-charm rested on the flat plane below his thumb. Its gold edges glittered under the sodium lights. It was cute and worlds apart from the ring, both in style and meaning.

The highway turned into the tall buildings of downtown Moscow, and the traffic became slower despite the late hour. Otabek’s hand was tighter on the gearshift and he pulled on it uselessly whenever they had to stop at traffic lights. Yuri felt the frustration, pointlessly trying to shift something with an appendage that was not meant for it.

“Do you know who that man was?” he asked.

“No,” Viktor answered. “But he did look familiar.”

Yuri could only remember the rings and the teeth.

“I just can’t put my finger on it,” Viktor continued. “He sounded Ukrainian.”


	17. Saturday, 1st of March THREE

Viktor tried to cover Yuri’s eyes with his hands as they walked into the VIP area of the club, but Yuri pushed him away. It was dark, but he could hear the shuffling and see the odd glimmer of glassware or sequins.

“It was meant to be a surprise, but fine,” Viktor said and clapped. Lights burst on, and Tall Man Christophe stepped forwards with a giant bottle of champagne.

“Happy birthday!” he said and popped the bottle open. The women in their short, glittery dresses cheered, and the cork flew past Otabek’s shoulder into the wall. Music started and the fizz of champagne overfilling glasses became buried under the beat. The lights were white gold, and they bubbled and undulated in time with the music, same as the liquid in the glass that was handed to Yuri.

Viktor and Chris exchanged cheek kisses, and Viktor took Yuri’s hand. “Look who I caught.”

“Lovely as always, _gattino_.” The Tall Man grinned at Yuri, taking his hand from Viktor.

Yuri made a face and snatched his hand free. He twisted around to see Otabek by the door, but Viktor took his arm again.

“There’s some people I’d like you to meet, Yurchik,” Viktor said. “I invited them especially for this occasion.” He pointed Yuri’s attention to a table where men, some in suits, some in more casual slacks and shirts, sat with armfuls of scantily clad women. They all raised their glasses at Viktor. “They’re Boss Nikolai and Boss Yakov’s business partners.”

Yuri had never heard Viktor refer to his grandfather or Uncle Yasha as bosses. “I’ve never even met them,” he scoffed.

“Yes, for a reason,” Viktor said, pulling him along. “I deal with them. I’m the face, kitten. Although I do hate it when you call me that.”

“I don’t believe you,” Yuri said, spilling the champagne over his hand as he tried to pull free.

Viktor didn’t let him go. “Because your grandfather would’ve told you?” Viktor said, not as mocking as usual. Sharper. “You always complain no one tells you anything. Well, you’re right. But I’m giving you an opportunity. There are a lot of business opportunities for someone like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Yuri couldn’t see Otabek anymore. “This was supposed to be a party!”

“This _is_ a party,” the Tall Man said, refilling Yuri’s glass from the bottle. “Do you want to sit? Dance? Drink?”

“None of the above with you,” Yuri sneered. “Or you.” He shoved Viktor away. “Or them!” He gestured at the table of businessmen so violently he spilled half his glass.

“There’s plenty other people for you to choose from,” Viktor said, not offended. He gestured around, at all the sparkling people in groups around them, dancing or drinking or sitting. “Everyone is here for you tonight, Yurionok.” Viktor grasped Yuri’s arm again, harder, and yanked him close. “But make no mistake, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity for you to sit at the table with the people who _actually_ do the work. Your grandfather’s little make-believe post-USSR village is not real, and neither is the quaint, pretend-small-time-thief story he’s fed you all your life. _This_ is real. _This_ is why no one tells you anything. Nikolai Sidorovich does not want you to see behind the curtain and make choices for yourself.”

Yuri swallowed over and over again, trying to dislodge the uncomfortable tightness in his throat. “Fuck off, Face,” he finally croaked, barely audible over the music. The lights were swerving around, blinding him every time they swept over. He wasn’t sure if the beat was his heart or the music.

“Think on it, tiger cub,” Viktor said, smiling, but frightfully so. Yuri drew away and was released, only to be caught by the Tall Man, who stood behind him, drinking straight from the bottle.

“Fuck off!” Yuri repeated, throwing Christophe’s arm off his shoulders. He didn’t bother speaking English. Those words were translated by tone of voice everywhere.

“I just want you to have a good time,” the Tall Man said, smiling. His smile was a far cry from the intense, empty-eyed one from Viktor. It had warmth and feeling, but it was still just as unwelcome. “And maybe meet some of our friends and business partners like Viktor suggested. You really should start networking.”

Yuri emptied his glass of champagne, which was as bright and mellow as the lights, and slipped away from Christophe. He didn’t want to network. It was supposed to be a party, his birthday party, but of course it was just another one of Viktor’s schemes. He’d fallen for it like an idiot. He’d listened to fucking Viktor, so it was his fault. Grandpa would never hide all this from him.

The champagne burned more bitterly in his throat than the vodka had at his actual party. Yuri pushed his way through the revellers towards the door and spotted Mila standing by Otabek, wearing a short fur coat over her short dress and heels. Not what she’d worn at the restaurant earlier.

“Yurasik!” she greeted him with a wave, her wrist bound with something sparkly. “I heard the party was here.”

“You heard wrong!” Yuri vented his frustration and bitterness with a loud voice, but which was barely audible over the music and noise. “This is just more of Vitya’s bullshit!” His eyes stung.

“It looks like a party to me,” Mila said. “Hi, Sara!” She waved at someone past Yuri. “There’s some pretty important people here too.” She pointed at the table of businessmen. Viktor had joined them, laughing.

“I wanted a party,” Yuri muttered, knowing she couldn’t hear him.

“Just come have fun with me,” she begged, taking his hands. “Otik, you too,” she added, looking at Otabek. “Come on, Yura. Let’s have some champagne. You only turn 18 once. Please?”

Despite her begging Yuri met Otabek’s eyes instead. They flashed gold and black with the lights, and Yuri’s idle flames of attraction were fanned despite his embarrassment and disappointment. He was a fucking idiot. He should’ve just gone come with Otabek.

He was startled when another champagne glass was pushed into his hands, this time by a pretty dark-haired girl who was definitely not Russian.

“Yuri, right?” she said in English. “I’ve heard so much about you from everyone.”

“Who’s everyone?” Yuri asked. He wanted to put the glass away, but Mila already had one of her own and she was trying to make Otabek take one too.

“Everyone!” The dark-haired girl laughed. “Chris! Viktor! Mila!” she listed. “I’m Sara.”

Yuri downed his drink and shoved the glass back at her. “Great. I’m leaving.”

“You can’t!” Mila said, taking off her fur. “I just got here. I know Vitya can be such a bitch, but just ignore him and whatever he’s said this time.” She took his arm, much like Viktor had, but there was no pressure in it. Yuri looked at Otabek again, but Otabek’s attention was on the door.

“He- I don’t think I can ignore him this time,” Yuri said. “I don’t think I ever wanna see him again.” For all the shitty things Viktor had done and said, this was the worst. Yuri felt like the rug had been pulled from under his feet.

Mila’s expression was surprised and troubled at the same time, and she opened her mouth to speak, but never got the words out. A loud crack sounded over the music, and the door flew open. There was a man behind it who met Yuri’s eyes and reacted by raising a gun and yelling. It was close enough to Russian that Yuri understood the meaning of his words— _I got him_.

The moment between one beat of the music and the next stretched. Yuri watched as Otabek grabbed the man’s arm in slow motion and bent it to the side. The man fired his gun in reaction, but the shot went wide. The noise crashed into Yuri like a typhoon and the force of it propelled him backwards.

But it was Otabek who pushed him down and away. There was another loud crack and then screaming spread from the door outwards into the room, superseding the music. All of the sounds together were a discordant mess as Yuri hit the floor and slid into a corner, briefly covered by Otabek’s body, and then left open to the kaleidoscopic chaos of light and panic. Yuri had no time to react except to try and back away from the noise as Otabek grabbed him and hauled him behind a sofa.

“ _Stay,_ ” Otabek hissed so sharply it penetrated the cacophony and shoved Yuri to the ground, then left him. The sofa shuddered and moved backwards, and Yuri scrabbled along with it. The floor stung his hands and knees as much as the noise did his ears.

Yuri could see running feet if he pressed his face to the floor. He could see glass shattering, reflecting the lights. The mind-rending sound of fear and firearms made the exploding glassware seem noiseless. Yuri protected his head with his arms when the sofa fell on top of him. He crawled away and was snatched up almost immediately, and he struggled until he recognised Otabek, now with blood on his cheek and trickling down into the neck of his shirt.

There was no time or opportunity for words. Otabek dragged Yuri to the door, placing Yuri between himself and the wall. There was a man at the door, also wielding a gun. The muzzle flashed and Otabek stumbled heavily against Yuri and shoved him down. The gunman didn’t have the opportunity to shoot again. Otabek rolled forwards into him, taking away the advantage of a ranged weapon. Otabek disarmed the man by driving his knuckles into the man’s throat. He grabbed the gun and whipped the man on the side of his head with it.

The man fell, and Otabek pushed Yuri to step over him. Yuri stumbled into the cooler and darker corridor. If the noise was less, he couldn’t tell from the roar in his ears.

He knew when they burst outside through a door they hadn’t come in through. There was slippery snow under his feet and his breath froze into clouds in the cold air. The rush of noise receded and he could hear himself panting, and Otabek too. He could feel the pain in his palms and the warm wetness oozing down his fingers. He almost lost his footing, but Otabek held him up.

There was a street, with cars. A car was parked across the sidewalk, and the man in the driver’s seat saw them too late. Otabek pushed Yuri down against the side of the car and broke the driver’s side window by shooting it and the driver behind it.

“Get in _,_ ” Otabek said, dragging out the body. There were people on the street, on the edges of Yuri’s consciousness. He staggered over to the passenger side door and pulled ineffectively at the handle. It didn’t open until Otabek opened it from the inside.

“Mila,” Yuri said, clinging to the door. “Vitya...”

“Not my responsibility,” Otabek said. “Get. In.”

Yuri got in the car and flinched when Otabek reached across him to pull the door shut. The car skidded and almost slid into another car on the street as Otabek forced it from standstill to speed. The wind was deafening from the broken window, but the cold only came when Yuri looked down at his hand. They were wet and red. He couldn’t remember hurting himself. He couldn’t remember anything.

“Beka,” he said and looked at Otabek. The trickle of blood down Otabek’s face was joined with beads of sweat. Otabek’s knuckles were torn open and white from the grip on the wheel.

“You okay?” Otabek asked loudly.

“Y-yeah,” Yuri said. “Are you-”

“Can’t go to a hospital,” Otabek ground out through gritted teeth.

“I don’t need-” Yuri started, voice shaky from having to pitch it over the wind and traffic. “Beka? Beka, are you-”

Otabek wore black and Yuri hadn’t seen the wetness spreading along his side until he moved and a flash of skin became visible through the tear. His blood was almost as black as his shirt under the yellow streetlights. The car felt like it was barely under his control, slipping and swerving on the street, taking space from the oncoming lane as well. Car horns joined the noise.

“No hospital,” Otabek repeated.

“I know,” Yuri said, staring at him. “The Specialist. There’s a- It’s- The old distillery behind the metro station.”

“Yeah,” Otabek said. He didn’t take his eyes off the road or his hands off the wheel. The effort was visible in his face, in the paleness of his skin, the sweat dampening his hairline, and the stiff movements of his body as he controlled the car. “Call the boss,” he said, strained.

Yuri wanted to throw up from the smell of metal and the coppery taste of fear in the back of his throat. Sickening warmth welled up from his hands as he dug into his pockets, but didn’t find his phone. The wide and slick thing must have slipped from his tight pants pocket while he’d been on the floor, but the small and archaic flip phone was still stuck into the bottom of his other pocket. It was slippery to get out and fell on the car floor from his hands.

“The- the glass,” he stuttered, fishing the phone back up awkwardly. “I cut myself on glass.” There were tiny cuts across both his hands, but the blood was sluggish, even when his heart was hammering his chest so hard every beat jarred him.

Otabek grunted, and when Yuri glanced at him, his eyes were glassy and his skin shone with sweat. The car shuddered, and there was blood seeping into the seat under Otabek. Yuri hit quickdial and held the phone to his ear, but his only answer was the tinny and faraway sound of ringing.

“He’s not picking up,” he said. “He’s not-” His grandfather had never not picked up. “Beka.”

Otabek didn’t answer either. He was shaking and the car was weaving on the road, hitting up against the lane separator with screeches and thuds. Yuri hit redial again and again, listening to the tone longer and longer each time, but no one picked up. With each redial his breathing became more and more ragged and his hands became more and more numb.

Yuri’s mind latched onto the club. Mila. The flash of her wrist bangles. What had happened to her? The dial tone became the only thing he could understand.

“Beka,” he said, over and over again. A few times Otabek made a noise, a few times he yanked his head up as though he was about to go to sleep. “Beka!” Yuri yelled when he saw Otabek’s eyes fluttering shut.

“Get off the highway!” Yuri directed, listening to the pulsing of the tone in his phone. It didn’t end. There was no one. “Go left!”

Most of the area had been demolished and was under new development. The lots were mostly empty and covered in snow. It was a world of chain-link fences and concrete blocks. The old distillery was dark. The last turn Otabek took went wide and he couldn’t regain the control of the car again.

The car hopped the curb and hit the wall of the distillery head on. Yuri had seen it coming so he braced for the impact, however low the speed. Otabek didn’t fare as well. He slumped over the steering wheel and stayed there.

“Beka? Beka!” Yuri shook him but couldn’t rouse him. Yuri shoved the phone back into his pocket and kicked the door open into the pile of snow, and got out. He fell at first, legs too weak to carry, but clawed himself up and around the car to yank the driver’s side door open.

“Beka!” he said through chattering teeth, pulling on Otabek’s shoulders. “Beka, you have to get up, _please._ ” He took the brunt of Otabek’s weight, dragging him out the car and onto the ground. The slick heat of blood seeped into Yuri’s shirt as fought to keep Otabek on his feet, almost in tears of relief when he heard Otabek still breathing, raspy and painful.

“We’re almost there,” Yuri gasped. He shook and slipped on the icy ground, collapsing onto his knees with Otabek falling out of his grasp. “Beka, help me,” he whispered, collecting Otabek back into his arms, but he didn’t have the strength to get him up off the ground. The ringing of the phone penetrated his consciousness.

“Grandpa?” Yuri sobbed into the phone, holding it with both hands. “Grandpa, help.”

“Yurochka, are you all right?” Grandpa’s voice was so far away. Yuri struggled to hear him over the ringing of his ears.

“N-no.” Yuri could barely speak now, his face and tongue frozen and stiff. “We’re outside the Specialist’s. Beka’s bleeding so much. He’s not getting up. Please, _help._ ” Yuri was crying now, fighting the cold and the pain, afraid Grandpa would tell him he was on his own because he’d disobeyed.

“Yura,” Grandpa said, so quiet, but steady. “Get up and get help from inside.”

“Y-yes,” Yuri stuttered and crawled towards the door of the old factory until he could get up on his feet. He clung to the wall for balance, stumbling over snow to the door. He banged on it, then pressed all the call buttons by it.

A light came on and a voice said: “Who?”

“Plisetsky. Yuri Plisetsky,” Yuri said, as clearly as he could. “Please-”

A buzz sounded and the door lock clicked. Yuri took two tries to get the door open and was met with arms holding him up.

“Boss Nikolai’s grandson?” the voice said. A woman. “What-”

“Help,” Yuri panted. “My friend.” He pulled on the arms. There were lights somewhere far away, like at the end of a tunnel, shattered into stars. Everything was behind a veil of rain, making it hard to see. Footsteps went past, people spoke. Yuri couldn’t understand any of it. He dry-heaved and lost his grasp on the phone, fingers unwilling to work.

He pulled himself up when two men came in, hauling Otabek between them. Otabek’s boots dragged on the floor and his head was hanging loosely from his shoulders. Yuri staggered at them, reaching to touch Otabek’s red and ashen face.

“Get out of the way,” one of the men said. “He needs to get to the Doc.”

Yuri stumbled back and kicked his phone across the floor. The movement arrested his eye and he sprung after it, falling onto his knees to fish it up. “Grandpa,” he said, holding it up to his ear, but the line was mute. He redialled, dragging himself into a corner of the lobby, leaving behind a trail of grime and drying blood.

He pressed his hand to his ear to try and get rid of the ringing, but it didn’t help.

“Yurochka?” Grandpa’s voice came from a distance.

Yuri pulled up his knees and cried with short-lived relief. He couldn’t speak from the constriction in his throat and chest, squeezing all the air out of him. His mouth wasn’t under his control, the muscles spasmed and made his teeth clatter together.

“Yurochka?” Grandpa said again. “I’m coming there. Don’t leave.”

Yuri gasped for breath, trying to form an answer, and only managed a breathless affirmative. He listened to the silence inside the phone for a long time, until the ringing in his ears subsided and his shivers became uncontrolled shaking, which he recognised as cold and pain.

The light was blocked by a person. “Are you cold?” she asked. “Ach, look at all that blood. You’re shaking so hard. Come up, grandson.” She helped him up. “Boss Nikolai won’t be happy if I leave you in the lobby.”

“H-how’s Beka?” Yuri’s tongue was awkward on the words.

“Who? Oh.” She had to hold him up, but she was strong. There was a scar on her jaw and her hair was short. “I don’t know. The Doc’s got him.”

“I want to go see him.” Yuri drew away from her, but his legs didn’t carry and he stumbled into a door. She caught him again and steered him inside, turning on the light. It was a bare office, with a hospital bed and a side table.

“Wash your hands,” she said, bringing him to a sink. “Is this your blood or his blood?”

“D-don’t know.” Yuri’s gut twisted in fear. A whine came up his throat as the water hit his hands. He tried to yank away, because the water felt boiling hot, but she held him still. The blood sluiced away, revealing cuts on his palms.

“Looks like glass,” she said. “Are you hurt elsewhere?”

Yuri shook his head, nausea returning. This time his heaves brought up bile which he spat into the sink. The woman guided him onto the bed and forced him to drink warm water from a plastic cup as she inspected him roughly. Then she covered him with an electric blanket and doctored his hands with tweezers and bubbling, stinging peroxide.

“I guess you don’t remember me,” she said while bandaging his hands. “I’ve stitched up your hands before.”

“Nn?” Yuri remembered the stitching, not who had done it.

“Oh well.” She wrapped the end of the bandage under itself, almost like hand wraps for boxing. “I’ll go check on your friend, okay? You stay here. You don’t want to go wandering around. Does Boss know?”

Yuri nodded, laying down as she pressed on his shoulder. “Please find out about Beka.” He had to concentrate very hard to make the words comprehensible.

“Got it. Sit still, grandson.”

Yuri fought for a moment but then his small world went dark.


	18. Sunday, 2nd of March

An insistent throbbing of the wounds on his palms woke Yuri. It was immediately clear that the reason for it was his grandfather, holding one of his bandaged hands. The room was dark except for a dim light over the sink where he’d washed his hands earlier.

“Grandpa,” he croaked. His mouth was dry and scratchy, and his eyes burned enough to make him blink over and over again to try and clear his vision. Some pungent taste or smell coated the back of this throat.

“I wanted to let you sleep a bit,” Grandpa said. His voice was tired too.

Yuri sat up, pushing away the stiff blanket. The simple movement woke up all his battered body parts, and he winced. “I slept? How long?” He slid off the bed carefully. “How- how’s Beka?”

“Yurochka.” Grandpa took his elbow, either to help him balance or to stop him. “It’s time to go.”

“What about Beka?” Yuri said. He pulled away from his grandfather, but carefully, and went to the door. It wasn’t locked, and the corridor behind it was just as he remembered it. Dusik and another vaguely familiar man were standing outside.

“Yurochka,” Grandpa repeated, sounding both weary and resigned, but Yuri tried to push past the men.

“Hey!” Yuri said, shoving at them weakly. “Let me go see him!”

“I’m sorry,” Grandpa said, getting up. “Bring him.”

The men grabbed Yuri by his arms and he struggled and kicked out. “Grandpa! What the fuck!”

Grandpa said nothing this time. He walked out of the room, wearing a relentless expression on his face. He still wore the same clothes he’d had at the party, same as Yuri, but when he stepped under a light, Yuri saw his clothes were stained with dirt. The men didn’t let go of him, no matter how much he fought.

“Grandpa!” Yuri cried. He was exhausted. Everything hurt. He still tried to twist free. “I can’t leave Beka! _Grandpa!_ Fuck! Off!” The last was to Dusik, who grunted apologetically.

“Sorry. Boss’ orders,” he muttered and held Yuri’s arm tighter. “Just settle down or we gotta carry you.”

“No!” Yuri screamed and fought. The thunder of his heart pulsated in every cut and every bruise and roared in his ears like highway traffic. The old factory was quiet apart from his protests, and no one showed up to help him. At the door he managed to wriggle free and fell to the floor, but Dusik tackled him to the ground and he was carried out into the cold. A car was waiting.

“Settle down, Yurochka,” Grandpa said. “I’ll have them tie you up if I have to.”

“Grandpa,” Yuri sobbed, out of breath and in pain, both physically and psychologically. “I don’t wanna leave him. Please, don’t make me. I don’t even know if he’s alive anymore. I don’t-” Was Mila alive? Was Viktor alive?

“I’m sor-” Grandpa began. He was cut off by two more cars driving into the makeshift car park outside the distillery. Yuri squeezed his eyes shut against the lights, becoming a dead weight between the men supporting him. His face felt sticky and hot in the winter air.

He recognised the man’s voice. “Did you think you could get rid of me with your little trick, _Nikolai_?”

Yuri opened his eyes a fraction, and his wet eyelashes broke the scene into hazy fragments of dark and light, but he knew the man with the rings and the two bodyguards. Grandpa’s face was set in stone, but there was pain behind it.

The man lit a cigarette. “You’ve brought me right where I wanted to be,” he said after exhaling. “You have my son.”

Grandpa covered his eyes with one hand, rubbing them. “Yes,” he said. “Here we are again.”

The man looked at Yuri. The tip of the cigarette flared. “I’ve been looking for you for 18 years, Kirochka. I suppose it’s my fault I didn’t grab you on the street tonight. To be honest, I underestimated your protection. No matter.” The man gestured at the old factory building. “Clear it. No witnesses.”

Yuri heaved in agony, realising what that meant. His capacity to understand was capped due to fatigue, and nothing his grandfather and the man spoke of really registered except the latter. Otabek was inside, unable to defend himself. Yuri’s feet scrabbled against the icy ground as he tried to gain purchase. To what end, he wasn’t sure. To throw himself in front of the two men with guns? They shot the lock and proceeded inside.

Yuri squirmed until he was free and fell to the ground. His knees took the brunt of the impact, and he gasped. Dusik grabbed him again and pulled him up.

“Grandpa,” Yuri said, pleading. A gunshot echoed inside the building. “Grandpa!”

Nikolai said nothing.

“You haven’t told him anything, have you, old man?” the man said. Yuri struggled when there was another gunshot, sobbing.

“Let me go!” He tried to scream, but he was too used up.

“Your grandfather took my wife and child,” the man said, looking upwards at the smoke he exhaled. “So I’ve done the same to him.”

“She was your _wife_ ,” Nikolai spat. “Monster.”

The man sniffed. There were three more gunshots in a row, then a pause, and two more. “You reap what you sow, Roman.” He gestured with his cigarette. “Sorry, should I call you Nikolai now?”

Every time Yuri blinked more tears came out. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the caustic pain in his lungs and limbs, but every breath was an uncontrollable sob. He was so _tired_. “Grandpa,” he pleaded. Why wouldn’t Grandpa help him?

“Kirian Gavrilovich,” the man said. No one stopped him from coming closer and slapping Yuri across the face. “My son does not cry.”

“I-I’m not-” Yuri stuttered. His senses were so overloaded he’d barely felt the slap despite the weight of the rings on it. The man grabbed his chin and tilted his face up.

“Your mother was a beautiful woman,” he said. “I’m sorry I had to have her killed. You can blame your grandfather for that.”

Grandpa still just stood there, pain and anger radiating from him. Yuri stared up at the man. He couldn’t feel his legs or his arms. “What?” he whispered.

“I’m here to take you back home,” the man said. “It’s time, don’t you think?”

Blue and red lights flashed in Yuri’s eyes and a police siren sounded once. The man dropped his hand and turned to Nikolai with a scowl. It was enough of an invitation, and Yuri pulled himself free of the men holding him, gaining his own feet. He almost fell on the ground again, legs shaking with effort, but now there a black hole of fury in his chest that fuelled his muscles. He swung his right arm and his fist made contact with the man’s cheek, Viktor’s ring biting both into his face and Yuri’s finger.

“ _What!_ ” Yuri screamed as he was tackled again, this time by Gavril’s men. They bore him into the ground with a sharp crack of Yuri’s bones taking the brunt of the momentum. The air was knocked out of him, as was coherency. He shrieked and fought, although he could only squirm and gasp for breath.

“This again, Roman?” the man said, rubbing his jaw. “You think the police can stop me?”

“Yes, for just long enough,” Nikolai said. Police cars rolled into the already crowded area and deployed men in bulletproof vests and automatic weapons.

The police were quick to take everyone into custody. The men were pulled off Yuri, and a coat landed across his shoulders, with Grandpa taking him under his arm. The police entered the building too, but Yuri never saw them come out. There were more shots, but they came as if from a distance as Yuri stared at the man in the suit and the red welt his fist and ring had left on the side of his face as he was cuffed and escorted to a police car.

“Yurochka,” Grandpa said gently when Yuri refused to move. Even when the heat from the coat began to hurt in his cold-locked body and his muscles started to shiver violently. “We have to go.”

“No,” Yuri wheezed. “He killed-”

“Yes,” Grandpa said and pulled Yuri along by force. “Get into the car. Dusik.”

Yuri couldn’t support his body into action and got carried into a car. At least his tears had dried. He didn’t think he could ever cry again because the boiling cauldron of hatred had vaporised all his tears.

The car was sleek and new, not at all like Grandpa’s old Moskvich. The backseat was roomy and soft, and the interior was warm when Yuri was unceremoniously tossed in. Dusik took the wheel and the other man sat in the passenger seat. Grandpa sat in the back with Yuri.

Yuri tried the door but it was already locked. His body seemed to weigh a thousand times more than it did normally. The car drove off, unfeeling, sailing into the Moscow night quietly like a ship. The only noise for a long time was Yuri panting, face pressed against the window.

“What the fuck just happened?” he finally said. He didn’t recognise his own voice. He didn’t recognise the feeling. “Since when do we trust the police?”

“We don’t. Those men are on my payroll,” Grandpa replied.

Yuri wiped his face on his bandaged hands. He was out of breath with betrayal. “ _He_ killed Mama.”

“Yes.”

It was so much easier and better to be angry. And Yuri was desperately angry. “Grandpa!” he cried, voice cracking.

“Yurochka,” Grandpa said. “You were born February 14th, 2001, in Kiev, as Kirian Gavrilovich Kolisnychenko to Gavril and Elena Kolisnychenko.”

Yuri froze. He stared at his faint reflection in the car window, broken by the lights.

“The man you just met is your father, Gavril,” Grandpa continued. Yuri saw him shrink with age through the reflection. “He almost killed you twice in the first month after you were born.”

“He _killed_ Mama,” Yuri repeated, spitting out the words like they were poison, corroding him from the inside.

“Yes,” Grandpa said again. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat.

“Because of _you!_ ” Yuri hissed. “You took away his-”

“Yes!” Grandpa said. “Yes, I took away his wife and his child. I took my daughter and my grandson away from a man who tried to control and kill them! I brought you to Moscow and changed your names and hid you to keep you _safe!_ ”

“And that worked, _right?_ ” Yuri screamed. He clawed at the interior of the car, the leather upholstery, the brushed steel fittings. He faced his grandfather, and he wore the same fury and grief on his face that Yuri felt twisting his guts. “My mother is dead! My- _Beka_ is dead! Mila is dead! Fucking Vitya is probably dead too, fuck him!”

To his horror his bruised eyes overfilled again. He scratched at his own eyes, his face, trying to stop it from happening. The tears made him feel so grimy and exhausted and _useless_. His chest ached as if it was about to collapse.

“You’re not dead,” Grandpa said, and Yuri burst into laughter and sobs at the same time.

“Let me go back!” Yuri howled. “Let me go back and _kill him!_ ”

“You’re going to Saint-Petersburg!” Grandpa raised his voice too. “I won’t let you ruin your future for someone like Gavril Kolisnychenko!”

“You’re paying the police!” Yuri argued, gasping for air of which there didn’t seem to be enough. “You- How do you have the money to do that! How do you- Why did you never tell me any of this before?” Yuri felt halved and quartered, cut into smaller and smaller pieces with each passing moment, severed from everything he knew.

“You were happy and free,” Grandpa said. “Why would I let your father’s shadow imprison you?”

Yuri bent over his knees, hands covering his face. He couldn’t breathe. “I’m not going!” he said. “I’m _not going!_ You can’t make me leave!” His words were ragged and that of a child. Another painful realisation caused him to whimper. “P-Potya. I can’t- Grandpa… My Potyusha…”

Grandpa stroked Yuri’s back. “I’m sorry, Yurochka,” he said.


	19. Sunday–Thursday, 2nd–13th of March

It took about 9 hours to drive from Moscow to Saint-Petersburg. Yuri wasn’t cognizant of most the time passing, only that he’d slept in the backseat, and that he’d been woken up once when they’d stopped at a petrol station. Dusik had offered him a bag with a change clothes, and the possibility of having a bathroom break. Dusik stood outside the bathroom the whole time to make sure he didn’t run.

Yuri found it absurd. At this point, where would he run? He didn’t know where he was, it was the middle of the night in March, he had no money, and he could barely go to the toilet properly with his hands bandaged and washing them was even more questionable. He scrubbed his face with wet paper towels and pressed them against his eyes to relieve the swelling and feeling like he had sand between his lids. He changed into the bulky and ugly clothes provided and was given a soggy sandwich and a bottle of water in the car, along with a few tablets of ibuprofen.

“Get some sleep if you can,” Dusik instructed him. “It’s another 4 hours.”

Yuri lay down on the backseat, but he didn’t sleep. He watched the lights move across the ceiling of the car, and he noted the long periods when there were no lights. The sound of the car’s tyres on asphalt, and occasionally gravel, was his only companion. The men on the two front seats didn’t speak, and they never turned the radio on.

Grandpa had stepped out of the car on the edge of Moscow. There’d been a separate car waiting for him. Another sleek, new car. The kind Yuri had only seen in the telly or on the internet. He had refused to respond to Grandpa when he’d kissed Yuri goodbye. Yuri had just closed his eyes, disappointed and emptied out.

“I’ll get a message to you when it’s all done,” Grandpa had promised. “I love you, Yurochka. All I want for you to be is safe.”

Yuri had closed the car door in Grandpa’s face and laid himself down on the backseat, still covered in Grandpa’s coat. He’d find a way to get back to Moscow because Grandpa was wrong. He didn’t want a new life or safety; he wanted to face the man who’d killed Mama. He didn’t want to just hide and pretend to be someone else; he wanted revenge.

He woke up to the car coming to a stop. Dusik had turned around in the driver’s seat and offered him an envelope. “End of line,” he said. “Boss told us to get you to Saint-Petersburg and into a taxi. The address and key are here.”

The envelope was heavy. Yuri could feel the key in it and a thick sheaf of paper. “Okay,” he said. “You can go.”

“Gonna see you into a taxi first,” Dusik said, apologetic again. “Boss’ orders.”

“Yeah, of course,” Yuri said and got escorted into a cab where he dug out the address from the envelope, finding the thickness came from a wad of money. He held the envelope’s contents hidden from the cabbie, not wanting to get gop-stopped first thing.

The address meant nothing to Yuri, but it turned out to be a newly developed area with tall, white buildings. He paid for the ride and squinted up the modern apartment building. It was a sunny late morning in Saint-Petersburg. He put in the door code and walked across the shiny lobby into a lift, pressing the button for the top floor. The key fit a door there.

It was the kind of an apartment Yuri had seen in the endless celebrity blogs he’d followed. It was new and clean and white, and the kitchen-living area was one big room with massive windows giving over the city. The water he saw glimmering in the distance must have been the Gulf of Finland. The kitchen island with its white marble top was piled with carrier bags and document folders. There was a new laptop, the kind he’d wanted Grandpa to buy for the shop to replace the ancient bootleg Windows XP machine, and a new phone.

Yuri passed by all of it. The sky, the bags, the documents, the implication that all this had been prepared well in advance. He opened the first door he came across when walking deeper into the apartment and found a bathroom. He opened all the doors and counted three unfurnished bedrooms, one more bathroom, and a few rooms he didn’t know the use for, except one had a laundry machine and a dryer. The last door opened up to a big, bright room with a bed in it. Yuri closed the blinds and fell into the bed, asleep within seconds.

Yuri wasn’t used to sleeping during the day. It got too hot and he sweated through the clothes and had nightmares, then woke up to a much different atmosphere. The light that seeped through the blinds was red instead of daylight white. The pillow and his face were wet, and for one heart-breaking moment he wasn’t sure where he was. As if he was waking up at home after his birthday party.

But nothing familiar was there. No school books piled on his desk, no cat toys and hair ties in every corner and every shoe. None of the sounds of the old building, no Grandpa shuffling around the apartment in his slippers, no Old Dmitrievich coughing downstairs. There was just unsettling silence and the smell of a silicone sealer from the newly finished fixtures. Yuri knew that smell because he’d had to reseal the walk-in drain twice.

He shed the coat and the boots, leaving them where they fell as he dragged himself through the apartment again, feeling like a ghost. The bandages on his hands were stained with blood. His head hurt.

The kitchen was red. The windows showed the city at dusk, with red streaks of clouds going across the sky. He hadn’t seen a sky like that before. Not that wide open and empty of buildings. He stared out over the city until the silence became too loud and he couldn’t swallow through the dry constriction in his throat.

His eyes and nose were running again so he withdrew from the window, wiping his face on the sleeve of his too big hoodie. The sunlight on the faraway waves of the gulf hurt his eyes so he got up and found the package of toilet paper he’d seen earlier in the pile on the island and brought out a roll to blow his nose. At the kitchen sink, he found out that he couldn’t grab a glass properly. He wrapped both hands around the dish and held it awkwardly under the tap to fill it, then drank as awkwardly. He put the glass aside and began to unwrap his hands, tears dripping down his face and off his chin the whole time. Not from the pain in the cuts, but from everything else.

_You’ll look on this moment in 50 years and think... Wasn’t it just yesterday?_

“But I don’t want to,” Yuri told the sink. He picked at the scabs on his palms under the running water, watching his blood stain the sink and swirl down. “Grandpa, it _was_ yesterday, but it feels like 50 years ago. You were wrong.” His voice cracked on the last word, but there was no one to hear him breaking down.

Yuri wiped his face again on his sleeve. It was wet from catching water in the sink. He took off the hoodie and left it on the counter. He stumbled over his feet and landed against the kitchen island, pulling the pile of documents to the floor with himself, then crawled over to the windows and leaned his hands and head against the cool surface, leaving behind smudges.

Yuri slid down the window until he was curled up on the bare floor. One of the things he’d pulled off the table was a photo album. It had fallen open, and Yuri recognised his mother in one of the pictures. He pulled it closer and flipped to the beginning, finding pictures he’d never seen. Mama in a wedding dress, and a younger but recognisable Gavril next to her. In some of the pictures Mama had bruises on her face.

Yuri smeared half-dried blood from his hands across his father’s face in the pictures. “I don’t know how I’m going to do it,” he whispered, “but I’m gonna make you pay.”

When he no longer bled as much, he resorted to carefully tearing the photos to get his father’s face out of them. Baby pictures came next. Gavril hovering possessively over his wan wife and son. In one picture both the baby and the woman had almost matching bruises on their necks. After that picture Gavril no longer made an appearance in any photo.

Yuri recognised himself in the last picture of the album. His third Christmas, hugging a tiny white kitten. They had matching red bows—not bruises. Potya’s was around her neck; Yuri’s was on top of his head. Mama was holding them both. Yuri closed the album and held it against his chest, gaze wandering aimlessly across the spilled documents until he spotted an envelope that said _Yuri. Important_.

An ID card and a passport fell out of the envelope as Yuri shook it to get to its contents. He picked up the card. It bore his face, but a different name and a birthday listed in April, a year earlier than the real one.

“Fuck you, Grandpa,” he mumbled, finding the passport had the same new, fraudulent information. The other documents further detailed his new life. The apartment had been signed over to his new identity from a corporation he’d never heard of. Discharge papers revealed that his new identity had completed Russian mandatory military service, and an acceptance letter from the Saint-Petersburg State University stated he was to begin his studies in mathematics September 1st.

And then there were the bank accounts. All three of them under his new name. The envelope only contained the latest balance statements, but it was enough to bring Yuri to a shuddery stop. He leaned his forehead against the window and watched the lights coming on across the city.

He’d never lacked for anything in his life. He’d lived in a building that had been crumbling to pieces for decades, worked in a shop that had scuffed and scratched surfaces, ancient furniture, and a computer that took minutes to boot up. He’d had a decent allowance. Or so he’d thought. He’d known there was more money than he saw, but he’d not expected that there was _so much_ of it. Two of the bank accounts weren’t even Russian. The one that was had a card and its PIN attached to the balance statement.

He’d always thought his grandfather and Uncle Yasha were minor players in the grand scheme of things. What they’d done hadn’t been exactly legal, but Yuri had never understood the harm in it. All of it was on such a small scale, right? Just some gambling and money laundering. Small crimes for small people in a small world.

Yuri sniffled and crawled over to grab the toilet roll to blow his nose again. The sniffles turned to ugly whimpers, because Viktor had actually told him the truth, or a part of it, and Grandpa had not. He no longer had Viktor’s ring, and he didn’t remember when it had come off. Otabek’s charm bracelet had survived.

“Vitya, you fucking shit,” Yuri muttered wetly as he scraped the papers into a pile. “If you’d just been less of a dick, maybe…” Maybe what? None of it was Viktor’s fault. “Forget it,” Yuri told both himself and Viktor’s ghost. He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand and lay down on the floor, surrounded by the pieces of his life that he never got to see while everything was still whole.

“M’sorry,” he said, covering his face with his hands, ignoring the stickiness. He had so many people to tell he was sorry. He should’ve gone home with Otabek.

It was dark and Yuri’s head was pounding when he got up the next time. The bare sky of stars and the city lights gave the kitchen a blue tinge. Yuri shuffled through the carrier bags and found toiletries and more practical, ugly clothes. He went to one of the bathrooms and had an awkward shower, washing himself with hands that stung from the soap. He kept turning the water temperature up because it didn’t seem to warm him up at all. He ate a can of tuna and drank a carton of orange juice, then crawled back into the bed in the master bedroom.

*

Yuri had always lived by a routine. He had never understood just how deeply the routine was ingrained until it was taken away. He still woke up at 6am, even though he hadn’t set an alarm. Even though there was no diner to go to, no chores to do, no school.

He booted up the new laptop and phone, but there were no messages from Grandpa. He created a new email account and emailed everyone whose address he remembered. He messaged Mila on Insta. Days went by and no one replied.

He looked up Gavril Kolisnychenko, a man who’d been a prominent figure in Kiev’s organised crime almost 20 years ago, and found guilty of a complicated mess of fraud, extortion, and murder around May 2001 after a very short and brutal trial process. Imprisoned for life. There were comments about the process having been biased and expedited through bribery. Then nothing.

Had Grandpa really arranged it? How could he have had that much influence and money? Yuri felt cold, looking at the pile of bank statements. What did that money represent? Terrible things done by you and to you? How terrible had those things been to amount that much money?

Yuri folded onto the floor, covering his face with his arms. “Unfair,” he said out loud, but quiet enough not to cause an echo. _Unfair_. The complaint of a child. “Unfair!” he repeated, and the word resonated in the empty corners of the big room.

He squirmed on the floor, tossing the papers around angrily, slamming his hands against the windows until he started leaving sticky red palm prints on the glass, repeating _unfair_ until he was drained. “You should have told me!” he yelled. “I deserved to know! I didn’t get to make a _choice!_ ”

He rolled over and hugged the photo album to his chest. The closest thing he had to his mother since everything else was out of reach. He returned to the laptop when the emptiness in his ribcage subsided, but no matter how he searched, there was nothing about a club shootout in Moscow. Nothing about Gavril Kolisnychenko being re-apprehended. As though his life going to pieces in one night had never happened. He turned the charm bracelet around on his wrist so much he developed a sore from the chain drag.

He felt so disloyal when he became hungry. How could he be hungry when there was so much to grieve? He still had to force himself to eat because the food tasted like nothing. It was an odd comfort.

After a week there was still nothing. Yuri looked up ticket prizes to Moscow and checked timetables over and over again, but he didn’t want to go out. The apartment had been stocked with enough canned and dry goods to last him a while, even if he didn’t eat only once a day. The freezer was full of Grandpa’s pastries.

“You promised!” Yuri had screamed at the pastries when he’d found them. “You promised you’d tell me when everything was okay! Where are you?” And he’d slammed the freezer door shut over and over again until he was breathless from crying and yelling.

Towards the end of the second week, Yuri became certain Grandpa had never even meant to contact him again. The new identity completely cut him off from Moscow and the remains of his family. He no longer shared the same name. All of his old identification papers had been at home. He couldn’t prove he was Yuri Plisetsky. He didn’t have a grandfather called Nikolai Plisetsky. He didn’t have a cat, or a slightly sketchy job at a diner, falsifying records. He didn’t have Brotherhood uncles or aunties. He wasn’t even 18 anymore. He’d lost a whole year and all of his family in the span of a day.

He was curled in bed, trying to cope with his realisation, when he was roused by faint buzzing. At first, he couldn’t tell it apart from the hum of the silence, but then threw the pillows and blankets on the floor, looking for the phone. But the phone was silent while the buzzing continued. Yuri ran down the corridor, peering into all the rooms, and then looked around the kitchen. It was all electric appliances while he was used to cooking on a gas range. The electric ones had digital dials and touch screens, but they were all also quiet.

“What the fuck is that?” he cried, covering his ears even though the noise wasn’t loud. It went away when his ears were covered so he knew it wasn’t in his brain. He rushed to the door and found an intercom device by it, flashing and buzzing. A tiny screen was alive above the speaker, displaying video from the front door of the building.

The picture didn’t make sense at first. A man carrying something. Yuri stared at the black-and-white video until the man looked straight up at the camera and his face resolved into a familiar one. Yuri started so badly he stumbled backwards and almost fell on his ass in shock and recognition. Then he hurtled himself at the buttons, pressing all of them because he didn’t know which one would let Otabek in.


	20. Thursday, 13th of March and onwards

It took a century for the lift doors to open, and as soon as they did, Yuri shoved himself inside and slammed into Otabek. Otabek grunted, impacting with the back of the lift, demonstrably solid and real.

“Beka, what the fuck!” Yuri cried, arms around Otabek, burying his face into Otabek’s shoulder. “I thought you fucking _died!_ ”

“Nearly,” Otabek said, voice husky. He lifted his free arm and squeezed Yuri. He didn’t have his fur-collared jacket and he smelled sour and sick.

The lift doors dinged softly and went to close, and Yuri remembered how to breathe. His whole body felt like white noise; alive after a long period on numbness. He pulled back, taking Otabek’s face in his hands, taking in the sunken eyes, the ashy skin.

“Beka!” he said again, tracing the familiar features, the lashes that looked even darker and thicker around the tired eyes, the lines around the mouth, and the more prominent cheekbones. A scabbed over scar on his temple and cheek. “You look like shit!” Yuri hiccupped, desperate to laugh and cry and incapable of doing either.

“Yeah.” Otabek went to smile, but it was just a twitch of his lips. “Brought someone,” he said then, raising the cat carrier in his other hand.

Yuri inhaled raggedly, and the dam broke. His fingers were clumsy on the unlocking mechanism of the crate’s little gate, and everything was blurry. Potya meowed in protest at being hauled out of the carrier, but Yuri ignored the objection and held her against his chest, rocking them both. He didn’t even mind all the loose fur getting stuck on his wet cheeks as he buried his face in her coat, or the claws digging into his shoulder.

Yuri had left his apartment door open in his hurry, and once they were inside, Otabek dropped the empty carrier and leaned against the wall of the entryway, sliding down to sit, eyes shut. Potya squirmed free from Yuri’s arms and dashed to hide in an empty carrier bag Yuri’s fits of rage had transported across the floor.

“Beka.” Yuri dropped next to him. He put his hands on Otabek’s thigh, feeling the rough denim under his fingertips, the muscle under the cloth. It felt real. “What- what happened? How did you-”

Otabek cracked his eyes open a sliver. “Dunno,” he murmured. He looked like a ragdoll, sitting there with his legs splayed and hands lax in his lap, head fallen over a degree. His breathing was unsteady and difficult, like he’d given all his strength to get there.

“Are you okay?” Yuri asked. He cupped the side of Otabek’s face and leaned in to touch their foreheads together. He could smell the strain. No mint.

“I’ll survive,” Otabek said. “Your cat’s heavy.”

Yuri snorted with horrifying wetness and drew back to dry his cheeks. He could see Potya’s nose poking out of the bag, sniffing the unfamiliar air. “Grandpa didn’t let me stay,” he said hesitantly. It made him sound like such a child. “I didn’t know if- You were bleeding out and I couldn’t get you to wake up anymore. I wanted to stay. I-” He bent his head, kneeling like he was at church, but instead of the iconostasis, he had Otabek. He’d had two weeks to try and wrap his brain around what had happened. Now he had to do it all over again.

“I thought you died,” he repeated slowly. _I thought I had to listen to you get shot_. The memory of the gunshots still made his stomach dip unpleasantly. Otabek took one of his hands into his own, but his grasp was weak.

Otabek closed his eyes again. “Wasn’t awake for days,” he said.

“How many?” Yuri asked. Otabek’s fingers were cold.

“Three,” Otabek said. “Heard I lost a lot of blood.”

“Do you remember any of it?”

“The club. Driving. Woke up in a fancy private hospital with a cat.”

“Did my Grandpa send you?” Yuri asked, figuring he could explain his side of the events later.

“Guess so,” Otabek said. Not exactly the affirmative Yuri had hoped for.

“So?” Yuri said. “Can I go back home now? Is it all done?” But he knew at once that wasn’t going to happen. Why bring Potya if he could return? And Otabek’s small frown confirmed it. “Is Grandpa-”

“Don’t know,” Otabek said. His lips were chapped and pale. “Tried to go back for my stuff when I left the hospital, but the place was torched.”

“But-” Yuri’s throat clicked with dryness as he tried to swallow. “Torched?”

“The shop looked like it’d been blown up. The apartment building was burned. Couldn’t even get inside. Stole a car and drove here.”

“Wh-what about everybody else? Mila? Uncle Yasha?” Yuri asked, not wanting to understand.

Otabek shook his head once. “Don’t know. Sorry.”

“Not your responsibility?” Yuri said, trying to hold onto his composure. He couldn’t find any of them, not even online. All the social media accounts were dead, frozen in time just before March 1st.

Otabek opened his eyes. They were black and impassive in the grey light of the cloudy day that reflected from the white surfaces of the apartment. He squeezed Yuri’s fingers lightly. “Neither are you now.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Yuri couldn’t believe there could be more tears, but his eyes filled up all the same. He wiped them dry before they could spill over. Was he nothing? “How was I ever your responsibility?”

Otabek unzipped his unflattering down jacket and pulled a small square of folded paper from an inside pocket. “Boss left me this.” He offered it to Yuri.

Yuri smoothed out the paper and recognised his grandfather’s block letters. He’d learned to read and write late in life and had never developed an easy hand. It was just the address in Saint-Petersburg followed by two lines:

_He’ll need the cat._

_Consider your father’s debt paid in full._

“What?” Yuri said, looking up at Otabek. “What debt? What does this mean?”

“My dad owed his life to your grandfather.”

“Why- What do you have to do with it?” Yuri asked, voice small. The paper’s edges bit into his tender palm as Yuri slowly pulled his fingers into a fist in fright.

“Your life for his,” Otabek said. “Dad was too old so he put it on me.”

Yuri swallowed again and again and pinched his mouth shut to keep it from wobbling. When his lungs started seizing, he covered his face with his sleeves and bent forwards over his knees, drawing ragged, wet breaths. He’d cried so much in the last year he was surprised there was any emotion left.

Otabek laid his hand on the plane of Yuri’s back and the connection made Yuri inhale sharply, but the exhalation just brought more tears. They spread into the cloth of Otabek’s jeans as Yuri pressed his face into it. Being walked to school made sense now, the way Otabek had looked at him made sense now. It hadn’t been out of friendship or more.

“Beka,” he said when he could speak again although his voice was unsteady and disgustingly broken. “Otabek. Was any of it real?”

“Of what?”

“Being friends, the- my birthday...” Yuri trailed off.

“Yeah,” Otabek said softly. He’d always been quiet, but not really soft-spoken.

Yuri sat up slowly. Otabek’s hand dropped off his back. “But you were brought in to babysit me!” he cried, not sure if he should be angry at Otabek or at Grandpa.

“Not to babysit,” Otabek corrected. “Protect.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Yuri challenged. As if his feelings towards and about Otabek weren’t confusing and conflicting enough already.

“Not to me.”

“So it-”

“Wasn’t told to pretend anything.” Otabek sighed, exhausted.

Yuri’s heart stammered in frightful hope. An ache radiated from behind his swollen eyes into his temples. “You didn’t come here just to get Potya back to me?” he asked carefully.

“No,” Otabek murmured, eyes falling shut. “Was hoping you needed someone to wash your dishes.”

“I have a dishwashing machine,” Yuri whispered, but slid into a heap next to Otabek, curling against his side. Otabek pulled him into the crook of his arm and rested his cheek on the top of Yuri’s head and breathed deeply, then went boneless as if asleep. Potya poked her nose out of the discarded bag and looked around in suspicion.

*

There was no snow in Saint-Petersburg, and the days after Otabek’s arrival were grey. In the mornings, Yuri and Potya sat at the big windows in the kitchen-living area, watching the city or tracing rain drops that poured down the glass. Otabek would sit with them, but leaning against the kitchen island because he was afraid of heights.

They slept in the same bed because there was just the one bed.

“Could sleep on the floor,” Otabek had offered.

“No,” Yuri had said.

On the first night they slept far apart. On the second night Yuri put his head on Otabek’s shoulder and his arm around Otabek’s chest and stayed there, waiting to be told he couldn’t do that. Otabek didn’t say anything, and he smelled less like a sick person, even though he was still covered in bruises and scabs.

“Blood sausage is a thing, right?” Yuri had asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“Should you eat something like that to replenish all the blood you lost?”

“Could try making some,” Otabek had agreed. He remained pale and drawn. Yuri suspected Otabek hadn’t exactly been _allowed_ to leave the hospital.

On the third night, Yuri spread all the documents and the photo album on the kitchen floor for Otabek to see. The light was best there. Yuri’s blood had dried on the photos and was flaking off in rust-coloured shards as Otabek turned the pages of the photo album.

“Did you know about any of this?” Yuri asked.

“No.”

Yuri shuffled the papers on the shiny floor with one hand, despondent. “Vitya was right,” he said, hating to admit it. “He was fucking right. He told me that night at the club that he was the one doing all the real business. I didn’t believe him because-” He inhaled damply. “Because I would know, right? Except he was right about that too. I didn’t know. I don’t know!”

He picked up the stack of bank statements and scattered them across the room with a furious twist of his arm, scaring Potya into hiding under the hoodie that had fallen off the counter in Yuri’s wake and had never been picked up. “Where did all this money come from? I saw the money that was put through the diner! It was- It was not like this. Grandpa lied to me! All he ever did was lie to me!”

Otabek had the photo album open across his lap, displaying the last page with the photo of Yuri and Potya wearing red bows. He still looked at Yuri the same way he’d done in Moscow.

“My name isn’t even Yuri,” Yuri huffed, slumping down on top of the papers.

“Yura,” Otabek said.

“No, it-” Yuri sighed. “I mean, I guess it is now.”

Otabek picked up the new passport. “Your birthday is April 12th,” he said.

Yuri covered his face with his hands. “I know.”

“Cosmonautics Day.”

“I know!” Yuri repeated and swatted the passport out of Otabek’s hand. “Grandpa had to ruin that too, didn’t he!”

“Easy to remember. Meaningful,” Otabek said calmly. He met Yuri’s eyes and held him until Yuri exhaled his frustration.

“I don’t know who I am.” Yuri said, pulling his knees up so he could hug them. “I don’t know who the people are I thought I could trust. Why didn’t Grandpa just tell me everything? We could have- I could have-”

He put his face in his knees and felt Otabek’s fingers against the small of his back, but all he felt was anger and despair, like an alternating current. He was glad Otabek was there, glad he wasn’t alone, glad there’d been something real, but it didn’t feel the same any longer. Had he lost that too, along with everything else?

“Wanna go back?” Otabek asked.

_Yes_ , Yuri thought. _More than anything. I want to go back to February_. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “But I can never- It can never be the same, right?”

“We can still go.” Otabek placed his hand on the back of Yuri’s head and petted him. “When I recover, okay?”

Despite everything, there was comfort in curling up against Otabek’s side. Being held under his arm. Yuri rocked himself slowly, eyes shut. “I just wanted to be a part of everything.”

Otabek closed the photo album and put it aside. “You found out who killed your mother.”

“Yeah, well,” Yuri grunted. “How fucked up can one family be?” It wasn’t the relief or the focus he’d wished for. Knowing who was responsible made him even sadder, not because he had any connection to his father, but because Mama had been nothing but loving and someone had thought they owned her life like that. And because no matter how much he wanted to blame Grandpa for it, both Yuri and his mother would’ve probably been dead years ago if they’d stayed with Yuri’s father.

Yuri let go of his knees and put his head onto Otabek’s shoulder instead. He had done that a lot in the last few days. Maybe it was better to have a friend than a boyfriend right now. He didn’t even know where the line was drawn. He just liked being cuddled, and for the first time there was no one supervising his behaviour.

“Grandpa always said that if I had a past, I couldn’t have a future. I thought he meant going to prison, but maybe he meant my father. I just-” Yuri sighed, looking at the piles of papers on the bed. “I just wish he’d _told me_.”

“You miss him?”

“Of course,” Yuri muttered. He’d been stripped of his most important support systems, of all the people, places, and routines he’d relied on. He had more material wealth than he’d ever thought possible, but at such a price. “This wasn’t what I meant,” he admitted into Otabek’s shoulder. Otabek had borrowed some of the clothes that had come with the apartment. They fit neither of them. The apartment fit neither of them.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” Yuri continued. Otabek was pulling his fingers slowly through Yuri’s hair. He hadn’t needed to tie it back for weeks. He’d barely combed it. “I just wanted a fucking _party_. And to wear something sparkly like Mila. I didn’t mean I wanted one and not the other.”

He didn’t know who he was talking to or pleading with. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to _do_.”

Otabek hummed thoughtfully. “You liked school?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Yuri sniffed.

“So go to school. You got the acceptance letter.”

“But it’s not _real_ ,” Yuri argued. “I didn’t do that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Otabek ruled. “You like it, you do it. If you don’t, then don’t.”

“Beka…” Yuri whined.

“Looks to me like Boss gave you freedom.”

Yuri lifted his head to look at Otabek’s profile. Otabek had picked up one of the bank statements off the floor and was looking at it with downturned eyes. The grey light did him no favours, but Yuri was captivated anyway.

“I know it’s gotta hurt,” Otabek continued slowly. “But maybe this was the only way he knew how to make sure you didn’t become like him. This wasn’t done in a day or a week.”

“No shit,” Yuri said but without bite. He’d always known Grandpa didn’t want him to follow in his footsteps, and Yuri had never intended to, not until Mama’s death. “I wanted to be a cosmonaut,” he said, dropping his head back on Otabek’s shoulder. “Or, you know, an aerospace engineer or something.”

“Boss listened to you,” Otabek pointed out.

“Not when it came to himself,” Yuri mumbled. “Not when it came to my revenge.”

Otabek brought his hand over Yuri’s shoulder and held him tighter. “You got the resources for that too, if it’s what you want.”

Yuri put his arm carefully around Otabek’s stomach, avoiding the spot where he’d been shot. It wasn’t an open wound anymore, but it wasn’t healed. And it looked painful. “Can we really go back when you’re better?”

“Yeah.”


	21. Epilogue

The second Saturday after Otabek and Potya had arrived, Yuri woke up at 6am and knew he was going to make pastries. He’d made them every Saturday for years, and he didn’t want to stop. He missed making the dough, and he felt a bit better when he got to sink his hands into it and knead it. He didn’t have a dough mixer now, but for a small batch it was fine to do by hand.

“Maybe I could start my own shop,” he said after rolling out the dough for Otabek to fill. “I mean, I have the money. And it’s kinda all I know. You could run it while I got my degree.”

“Okay,” Otabek said, just like that.

Yuri smiled, drying his hands on a kitchen towel. He’d bought himself a bright yellow hoodie because he’d almost always worn dark ones before. Nobody cared. No old men looked at him weirdly for wearing a bright, “girly” colour like that.

“Okay,” Yuri echoed. He checked on the oven, which had a special piroshki setting, and watched Otabek work until a familiar buzz cut through the air.

Yuri’s chest contracted painfully. “It’s the door,” he said, but didn’t make a move. He wasn’t sure if he was afraid of good or bad news. He didn’t even know for certain what would be the good or the bad news anymore.

Otabek touched Yuri’s cheek and went to the door instead of him. “It’s Nikiforov,” he called back from the entrance. “Let him in or no?”

“What?” Yuri came to see the video feed in surprise. It really was Viktor. He buzzed him in, bewildered.

“Yuranechka!” Viktor spread his arms as though he expected a hug as soon as he stepped out of the lift. He wore a light suit almost the same shade as his hair and a tie which matched his eyes. He looked unchanged.

“Vitya,” Yuri said, reserving his judgement for later. “You survived.”

“No thanks to you!” Viktor said, but smiled. “Or you.” He smiled a little less at Otabek. “Tabik.”

“Face,” Otabek responded.

“What’re you doing here?” Yuri asked. “Where’s everybody else?”

“Is that all I’m good for?” Viktor said in a wounded tone. “Asking about _others?_ Oh, do I smell piroshki?”

Yuri stepped back. “Come in,” he said. He could pretend to be annoyed all he wanted, but he wasn’t. He was a little relieved, and even worse, a little hopeful that Viktor had something to tell him. Some news.

Viktor stepped in and clicked his tongue at the state of the entranceway. No one had told Yuri to pick up his boots or hang up his coat for weeks. They were on the floor in a pile, and Potya liked to sleep in the coat anyway. “Even this,” Viktor said and bent to pick something up. The ring’s gold edging caught the light. “You just threw my gift on the floor, Yura? That makes me sad.”

Yuri took the ring with a scowl. He hadn’t seen the thing since punching his father with it. He was surprised it was there at all. “How’d you know where I was?”

“I know everything,” Viktor said, and Yuri felt the familiar tingle of apprehension. Then Viktor laughed. “Who do you think set up this place, Yurionok? Uncle Kolya was too busy playing the local small-time criminal. Do you think it was him who picked out your new laptop and phone, or this apartment? He would’ve bought you a dingy little one-bedroom in some slum.”

Yuri swallowed the obvious answer that maybe he might’ve preferred that. “Is Mila okay?” he asked instead. “Since you know everything, do you know where Grandpa is? Uncle Yasha? Aunt-”

Viktor held up his hand, then removed his leather gloves, one finger at a time. Yuri backed away until he felt Otabek’s hand on the small of his back. “Your grandfather…” Viktor started. “What a piece of work, am I right? I came out of a club shooting to find out he had blown up his own shop and disappeared along with his closest business partners. They did talk about retirement, didn’t they?”

Yuri caught his breath. “No. I don’t belie-”

“He burned down his own apartment building too. Probably with all the tenants inside,” Viktor continued, staring at Yuri. “And it turns out he liquidated everything and funnelled it to you. All of it. I’m a little frustrated by that. I thought I’d get a bigger cut, but it seems he never intended to leave anything behind. Good thing I still have my contacts.”

“I don’t-” Yuri started again.

“But that’s not really why I’m here,” Viktor said. “Unless you feel like finally joining the table. Or even better, establishing your own dinner rules. I could help.”

“You have no idea what I-” Yuri didn’t get to finish this sentence either.

“I’m here for revenge,” Viktor said, lifting a hand to tap a finger against his own cheek as if in thought. “Your mother’s murder.”

“I know who did it!” Yuri snapped.

“Yes, and I know where he is,” Viktor said. “So…” He spread his arms again. “Shall we work together?”

Yuri felt like he’d been dipped in ice cold water, left fighting for breath.

“Ksana was dear to me and others too,” Viktor continued. “Do you want it, Yurchik? You even have your enforcer handy.” He made a gesture at Otabek.

Otabek grunted. Yuri stared at Viktor. “Yes,” he said. “ _Yes_.”

“Then shall we begin planning over hot piroshki?”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Realignment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27842266) by [Melliebae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melliebae/pseuds/Melliebae)




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